


Pastoral Pursuits and Pleasures

by asemic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bathing/Washing, Brief Mention of Violence, Dry Humping, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Food Metaphors, Hair Washing, Hand Feeding, Identity Issues, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, M/M, Romance, Sleepiness, Victorian pornography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: The Franklin Expedition ends in success. John Irving takes the first steps to securing his future and pursues a more rural, grounded life. Hickey follows.





	1. There Is An Ending - or - John Irving Creates A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dottore_polidori for being a spark when it comes to these two.

For the majority of his life John dedicated all his time, energy, and waking moments to the Royal Navy. Now, he envisioned a life for himself without the R.N., but still the slightest bit of hesitation nibbled in the corners of his mind. He knew it too late to turn back, though newly promoted Captain Little extended the invitation for the position of First Lieutenant for as long as needed. Edward demonstrated himself time and again to be too good of a man with a singular generosity of spirit in addition to pragmatism. Truly, his handshake alone upon the conclusion of their meeting felt weighty enough to pull him back to the ocean, the promise of running a ship beside the man almost impossible to refuse. But, he set his mind to leaving and provided his papers, though Little, Crozier, and Sir John himself insisted on him retiring with the promotion, protocol be damned. 

A solid amount of money belonged to him now, even more than he thought with his last minute shove up the ladder. His paths opened wide, but the current road he took led him to a pub. He wanted one final drink before he set sail to Scotland, to the modest plot of land he intended to walk and purchase. He needed to surround himself with smiling men in their uniforms, share in the unique feeling comradeship provided, especially after their successful Expedition. 

The smell of ale and whiskey and tobacco hung heavy in the air, the public house filled with men reminding him of the packed quarters he previously departed seemingly moments before. Time moved too fast for his liking. In the center of the room with a smile as large as his ego since he did the impossible, Blanky held the attention of young midshipmen. John heard his version of the story before, several times in fact, but he still found himself caught up with his dramatization of the events they lived. The ice unforgiving, nearly swallowed them whole, but it was he who tamed that vicious beast known as the Passage. 

“And this bastard helped,” he yelled, thrusting his finger at John. 

“I did nothing, sir. It was you alone who held the ice at bay, or so I’ve heard.” John clasped him on the shoulder then accepted the bear hug. “It’s been an honor, sir.” 

“Likewise, lad. Go grab life by the balls.” And with that Blanky dropped back to his seat and resumed his tale, the young men enraptured. 

John took his pint and found a small space in the corner of the room, crushed against the Marines. Heather lead them in song, his voice cracking with intoxication. They sang when they found the Pacific, not a single song, but multitudes, the men too overcome with emotion to stay with one. 

All of them, enlisted and non, the most senior and the youngest of the boys stood on the decks of the Terror and Erebus, thumping and pounding the ship with pure joy. No ranks, only embraces. Captain Crozier immediately smacked Blanky with a joyous hug before extending another to Jopson. _Close be damned_ , Crozier told him and Jopson only nodded, too choked up to speak. The more pious of the men bent their heads in prayer, John with them before he sought out the rest of the officers. _We’ve done it_ , he chanted over and over in his mind as he meandered along the packed deck. 

“We’ve done it,” he whispered to the full room. He raised his mug in a silent toast and finished his ale. He wove himself through the men, accepting the brief goodbyes and crossed the threshold from their world and into his own. 

*

John sat on the dock, not at all minding his surroundings. His legs instinctively led to the smell of the ocean and the calling men, the familiar before he undertook the decidedly un-. It made sense to do this in little stages, cutting the smallest of threads to release himself completely to his future. Doing so tempered the bouts of melancholy he experienced from time to time, the anxiety that often led him to over-analyze and stutter his steps forward. He would not relent, he would not stray. 

He startled slightly when someone dropped next to him, the one person he never expected to ever see again, let alone acknowledge. “So you’re one of us then?” Hickey looked like hell, his face pale and eyes red. Grim, in fact, his hand a death grip around a white glove, if John discerned correctly. 

The last time he saw the man he looked miserable, but not as sick as now. Everyone else disembarked with joy and pride, eager to leave, yet Hickey stalled until the very last minute. “I imagined I’d be somewhere warm,” he told John when questioned, bitterness dripped from his words. “Now I’m back where I started.”

“Greenhithe?” John was confused by his attitude. 

“Hell.” And with that he tipped his head and finally left, John completely lost. 

_One of us_ … “I am a civilian now. Have you left the service as well?” 

Hickey let out an amused sound and gave one of his enigmatic expressions, this one almost mocking as if the answer ought to be clear. “Yes. I thought you’d stick around some more and sail off with Captain Little to parts anew.”

How would the man assume he would be off with Edward? The man seemed to have his thumb everywhere and yet he acted like he was in his own personal nightmare. How utterly maddening it must be to live the life of Cornelius Hickey. “I am setting sail to somewhere new. I’m leaving for Scotland in the morning to purchase some land and work it. With success, if God wills and provides.”

“ _You_ work the land, sir?” Hickey looked genuinely amused, tickled really, and John ruffled a bit. How dare he assume that he’d automatically fail because he’s a novice. “Best of luck, then.” Hickey took two steps then paused. “How large and where,” he asked, slowly turning with a quirk of his eyebrow. 

John pulled the papers from his pocket with a bit of hesitation, a bit uneasy to speak so casually and openly with Hickey. But, they were civilians now and he could afford the man the respect and answer. He pointed at the survey. “It’s not much, but there’s a lot next to it if I choose to expand. Both plots have comfortable homes and once I’ve started a family I can expand.” He smiled shyly and imagined her and him creating a life of their own, she darting to and fro, her lace and needlepoints and curtains occupying a once decidedly masculine space. Their child on his lap, swaddled as he watched his darling flit about. 

“So this is the other plot then? Same price as the other?” Hickey traced the boundary with a tobacco yellowed finger. “Still available, eh?”

“Yes, if the letters can be believed. Are-are you saying you are interested in being neighbors?” John pulled the survey from his hands and clutched it almost protectively. He frowned then tried to shift his face into something more reasonable when Hickey glared. 

“No, not neighbors. Just two people occupying a space near one another without much communication.” He said it bluntly as if every man could read his mind and still needed clarification. “You leave tomorrow you said?”

“Yes. I could ask Captain Williams to see if he has room for you. I’m sure he will as a favor to a friend.”

Hickey made a face, a quick twitch as if he needed to adjust his plans and words. “So you know the captain. Well, sir, if you can arrange it, I’ll go. I have the coin, not much to bring, and it’s not here.” 

“Do you truly hate this place so much, Mr. Hickey?” John could not imagine holding such hate in his heart for anything, even if he were wronged in some manner. 

“Absolutely, I do. Talk to your man and I’ll be here waiting.” Hickey tugged on the white glove and waved his goodbye. 

“We depart at nine in the morning. Arrive early,” John shouted, but Hickey had already disappeared.


	2. Another Journey is Had - or - John Irving Strikes A Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John and Hickey journey and a negotiation takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind responses! It's always overwhelming to receive positive feedback to my work, especially one tonally different from what I tend to write. I hope you continue to enjoy what I've written.

The journey to Scotland passed uneventfully and quite smooth under the skilled hands of Captain Jack Williams and crew. Jack was a jocular man who, for some reason, tolerated John's more guarded and insular personality. He shared his exuberance with his wife, a woman as short as Jack tall, and with a liveliness which drew all attention to her. Though they were all roughly the same age, John felt inadequate, their sum life experiences so far apart. Even as Jack excitedly listened to his animated discussion of the Expedition, an envious voice nagged in John’s mind.

Marriage and children: those events rose over the horizon as he moved forward with his plans. Still, a void in his chest existed, a longing because he may not experience the love of another unless he acted soon. He wanted to be embraced as Eleanor did Jack. Often they forgot about propriety, she reaching for his hand before he playfully kissed her cheek, creating pauses in their conversation. Affection like these little intimacies were only a potential, left to remain imagined until he finally set himself in order.

However, the most pressing issue during their voyage wasn't romance, but Hickey. John grew concerned the thunderclap in the shape of a man would reflect poorly upon his judgement. Having vouched for him, Jack immediately sent his men to clear one of the tighter spaces without question. They only saw one another during meals with their hosts, the lull before Jack and Eleanor joined them filled with silence. Hickey barely acknowledged him beyond a nod, his lips pressed into a pout rivaled only by the most disagreeable of children. But he unfolded as soon as the couple entered, his face charming as he greeted them warmly and commanded the conversation with ease.

John watched with curiosity trying to see where this man came from. Once, their eyes met and the mirth in his expression hardened for a moment, disappearing when John blinked. It slipped from his mind when Jack let out a bawdy response to Hickey's comment, Eleanor clutching her napkin to her lips primly before dissolving into giggles. After every meal John hoped Hickey remained in that state so they could speak about their upcoming purchase, but as soon as the door shut behind them he walked back to his berth, glove clutched in hand.

*

John barely held back his anticipation upon their arrival to the land. He tried to collect his bearing, but he walked with a lightness in his step and a grin on his face. He should have known better when accompanied by Cornelius Hickey, a grey smog hovering over his colorful future. 

“How one can believe they can sell a property in this state will linger in my mind.” Hickey glanced around the four room cottage and shook his head. John followed his gaze and only saw minor inconveniences anyone who dedicated time and energy to fixing could maintain. “For starters, I want the chimney scoured, the broken window replaced,” Hickey stomped on a floorboard and it cracked in half, “and this repaired.”

“Not my job. You buy what you see,” Mr. Campbell, the owner, replied coldly. Hickey shrugged, miserably threatening to cut this transaction short, rendering the journey pointless. 

“Funny, isn’t it, what we see? Standing before me I witness someone who thinks he can sell shambles to men who worked their way through the Arctic. For Crown and Country,” Hickey emphasized. John’s sense of personal pride rose defensively, Mr. Campbell no longer a man of honor, the home losing its luster. Hickey strode over to John and smacked him hard on the back, enough to lurch him forward. “Now us two, you can try and cover our eyes, but you will not fool me.” 

“There is no cheating and if you do not like it, leave. He stated he would take the property and I intend to hold him to it.” Campbell jammed his thumb John’s way, in a most insulting manner. Anger stirred and he made a move to speak rashly. Hickey must have sensed his growing ire and held his bicep in a grip, a warning.

“As a reminder, I wrote I would take the property contingent upon walking and deeming it satisfying. I must agree with Mr. Hickey and say this is not at all as you described.” John brought the correspondences with him and was ready to take them out if necessary. From the exasperated way the owner looked at them, it seemed he and Hickey would get the better part of this deal. “There are repairs I will make, but I won’t go ahead and fix your errors or what you’ve let fall to ruin.” 

“I dealt with your type in England. I didn’t sail across the world and back to be scammed. Make the repairs we’ll detail, sell your lots, take your money, and disappear. The payment is your goal so do not lose the two men who are here.” John glanced at Hickey; how utterly focused he looked, his face oddly placid though his voice held an edge of darkness. He tilted his head and blinked slowly and John knew they had the man cornered. 

“I’ll get men out here. Give me your list and I’ll do it within reason for a down payment. Half.”

“Thirty-five percent, lest you skip out leaving us poorer and out of sorts.” John extended his hand and drew his shoulders back to stand taller, a strong posture key to confidence. He received his handshake, the money quickly exchanged, and a document stating the list of repairs and minor improvements signed.

“I know you’re willing to work, sir, but he desired the money more than you this place.” Hickey patted him on the stomach and walked outside. “The world is made up of men like him, eager to bugger the rest.” 

“I suppose we are neighbors then, at least in the legal sense.” John stood awkwardly while Hickey sat on the ground, back turned. John disliked these moments, the odd transitions beginning or ending conversations; they left him wondering if more needed to be said and done. He took Hickey’s silence as a hint and decided to depart, the intention of renting a small room until the cottage was put into proper order in the forefront of his mind. John imagined using the living space the first night here, his bags and trunks all ready to be moved in. Alas, his things would have to held in town a bit longer. 

“I’m sleeping outside. It’s a clear night after all and there’s some blankets in the closet. You’re welcome to join me. We’ll part ways after we know he gets the work done.” Hickey lightly smacked the fingers of the glove he carried against his knee and fell backwards against the grass. 

John raised his brows in shock and nodded, the gesture kind and unexpected. What a pleasant turn of events; the leaden lump in his stomach unfurled and he felt relaxed for the first time in a while. “Thank you, Mr. Hickey.”

“Oh, no, sir, thank you. I believe this’ll be an adventure of a lifetime.”


	3. A Home Is Tended To – or – John Irving Observes His Surroundings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where trees are felled, labor is performed, and John sees a figure in the distance.

John saw Hickey from time to time, wandering the land with arms extended to the side, brushing his fingers along the spattering of taller, more unruly grasses. He'd disappear under the plant line, only the top of his head visible. John did not know what interest a simple wildflower or insect held to any man. And yet he stared at him with equal intensity when Hickey somehow entered his line of sight. He slipped into the corner of John's vision or drew attention while he took in the majesty of nature.

Oddly, Hickey dictated how John approached his own work. Initially, he intended to begin around his house and expand out, but Hickey moved along the treeline and there John found himself. He cleared some of the more scrawny pines and felled a handful of manageable trees. Or ones he _thought_ to be, resulting in a near disaster. One topple led to a chain of trees exploding to the ground with a sound akin to cannon fire. After he picked himself from the ground, curses ringing clear as a bell, he heard a faint chirp of laughter and applause. He stormed away and left the trees be for two solid days before girding the broken trunks with a glee he knew to be revenge.

So many tedious improvements needed to be made, threatening to overwhelm. Nothing so deadly as being crushed to death while a layabout cheered, thankfully. John excelled at making lists and exacting his duties at an appropriate clip. The smallest of bites cleared the plate without indigestion; he did his best to remove stumps and burn the unusable brush, saying a grateful prayer the land was level and mostly clear, just untidy. 

He took great joy in manual labor. The body, mind, and soul worked in tandem, just like the world itself, all parts of nature creating a whole. He nestled himself easily into cycle, his muscles changing in tone while he manipulated the landscape. To do so provided John with an odd peace. The staccato call of a grouse and the chattering of squirrels became a tonic, cleansing the harsher aspects of his disposition leftover from the service. He no longer needed to be a conduit for orders or a pillar of authority to the men. He had a chance to focus on himself.

As he worked it seemed Hickey did nothing, occupying his time by sitting on the ground or walking. He climbed trees for Heaven's sake, perched feet off the ground to lord over his kingdom. Sometimes he'd hang upside like a rebellious child, hair catching the breeze like leaves. He even stayed outside during storms. The rain pattered John’s roof and he’d peer out and there he stood, a satyr with water sliding off his bony frame. He stood with arms outstretched and his face tilted to the roaring sky wearing nothing but an unseen expression. John shuddered, imagining the utter chill of his skin under such a torrent. But still Hickey stood, an oddity. A change of everything; so much to get used to.

During those wet days John tended to his home. He always prided himself on his neatness and organization, everything nestled in its appropriate space. It comforted him, a certain reliability in his new world. The dinner table he set for two which both fueled and staved off loneliness. Near the fireplace was the modest couch with a matching armchair sitting across from it, both solid and made of sturdy material. The bed may be called extravagant, large and overwhelming the moderately sized room. It took him a week for his body to fully unspool while sleeping, the reflex to press his body within a narrow space carved into his bones after so many years. Only when he woke with his limbs spread across the middle of the mattress did he feel truly relaxed.

The most prized possessions he displayed in prominence, a fine summation of his life and achievements. His most personal Bible remained by his bedside, the one his mother gave him upon turning five. Her spidery handwriting wrote the most lovely inscription and he hovered his fingers above her letters, scared to smudge the ink and erase another part of her. The medals and achievements he kept in their boxes and binders on the shelf above his desk. His entire life summed up in stamped metal, from a young age until a short time ago. But one item would outlive him until the end of history, it an honor above all others. The map of the Arctic's recently named geographical features he framed and placed on the mantle for all to see. Irving's Inlet, his name there, a most beautiful sight, printed in all future maps and atlases. Sometimes he'd press his hand to the glass and he'd be there again, surrounded by icy outcrops, the blue water, and calling birds. 

There'd be no more well-known accolades, his future marked by the physical character of his home and whatever he planned to do with his property. In truth he had no true plan. A garden, certainly, but he was no farmer therefore a small plot suited him well. Perhaps animals, though he was not going to raise livestock. He began this endeavor desiring space. Being packed with other men for years upon years, breathing their airs and tasting their sweat and worst on his tongue made him crave privacy and peace. No matter his plan, from now on he alone determined the pace, though nature held an influence. John stared out the window and watched the rain sheet down, Hickey in the distance as naked as the day he was born.

*

The sharp rap at the door nearly made John drop his washing. He never had a visitor, not counting the last of the workmen, those boorish sub-humans who tramped into his house without extending a courtesy knock. They barged in on John, still in his nightshirt with a slice of toast in his mouth. 

Though he knew it could only be Mr. Hickey, it still took him a moment to register him as a man up close and not a faraway figure tramping in the grass. He must have noticed John's hesitation, his hand gesturing at the entrance of the house. “May I come in or shall we stand at the doorway, me a pedlar and not your neighbor?”

“I thought we shared boundaries, not pleasantries,” John murmured, standing aside. Hickey's eyes scanned the interior of his home, rooting through his belongings, taking inventory of John's personals and particulars. He felt exposed and moved between the man and the room to create the slightest buffer.

“True, sir, but I wanted to see how you are doing. I have to say, I'm impressed with your progress. It must be your Christian ingenuity propelling you forward.” Indeed, John held it in the forefront of his mind. It motivated and he was glad Hickey recognized his industry. “For a moment there I was concerned you wouldn't have made it to this point, or lived at all,” he said with an air of cheer.

“Ah, the tree felling. I remember your worry expressed through laughter,” John stated coldly.

Hickey raised a finger. “Only when I saw you were fine did I laugh, not a moment before. I’ve made progress, sir, thank you for asking. Been biding my time and not letting labor consume all my energies.”

“I've noticed,” John stated. Hickey made a curious face and John immediately corrected. “I mean, you tend to enjoy the outdoors no matter the weather.”

“So, you've been watching. Hm, if you've seen me why haven't you visited or joined me on a walk? I expected my existence to be acknowledged.”

“You made your intentions of leading a quiet, solitary life quite clear. I honored your wishes, Mr. Hickey. If you are open to my company, I will take the chance to stretch my legs and reconnoiter the grounds. Perhaps you may share any observations I may let pass.” John remembered to bring a small book in order to take notes; though he learned to memorize long lists of tasks, he had a feeling Hickey may prove distracting.

“Sounds fine. Is that our map?” Hickey leaned close enough for his breath to steam the glass. “Didn't even open mine and you've got yours proper with a stand.”

“You should, considering your name is there. An honor mustn't be left hidden to the world. Oh, would you care for some tea? You are my first real visitor and I ought to be a proper host.”

“Wasn't planning on staying. I make for poor company, but yeah. I'll accept.” John hoped the conversational Hickey emerged, the man who drove their dinner discussions during their journey from England. “Tomorrow we'll set out. There's not much ground to cover, but there's always something to discover when you keep your eyes wide.”

“I imagine you've seen much during your hours outside. You prefer being surrounded by nature,” John stated.

“Right now I prefer it. Looks like you feel the same. No guests, no extended trips into town. Solitary men are we.” A difference existed between solitary and lonely; John believed they toed the line. “I've grown tired of the words of men, sir. Here I stand, owner of my own house. Things change don't they?” Hickey looked thoughtful, surely seeing the man he was before and the line of events leading him to the present.

John blew across the rim of his cup, steam curling clouds like fog. “You told me you wished to be somewhere warm. The temperature here is mild, nowhere near a tropical climate.”

Hickey sighed. “It's a decision I may come to regret, but it's my choice, you see. I alone decided, Lieutenant.” His face turned satisfied, chin held high.

John frowned. For the first time hearing his rank sounded tired and inappropriate. “I'm no longer a Lieutenant. Please, don't refer to me a one.”

“For years you were my Lieutenant,” Hickey replied plainly.

“I understand. Old habits are hard to change, not at all like shedding a coat. If it were so easy, men would be dropping and and picking them up from the streets, shifting their very natures instantaneously. What lessons are learned from such activity?”

Hickey stayed quiet for a bit, his eyes focused on the surface of his tea. He raised his brow and exhaled sharply. “Don't let the question hang. Share your thoughts.”

“Obviously, no lesson comes. Change is a constant journey. I wish there were aspects of my personality I could excise, but to do so immediately means the rest of me would collapse. Unsupported.” John paused, surprised at the amount of talking he'd been doing. He missed chatting, the majority of his interactions limited to brief exchanges with shop owners or people on the street. Even more of note, Hickey actively listened, mulling the words. “I need to manage and strengthen certain temperaments to balance the rest.”

“That speaks volumes, sir. I feel as if I know you more now than in the years we spent on the Terror.”

“We never really spoke, did we? Opportunities beyond orders never arose.”

“No.” Hickey's mouth twitched, but he remained engaged. “You wish to change the self. It's the world around me I'd fix if I could.”

What an odd statement, the world structured quite nicely for them, especially now. “I don't understand.”

“The tea is good. Thank you, sir.” The conversation promptly lapsed into silence. Draining the final bit of tea, Hickey left without a word of goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for your comments! This little slice-of-life drawer fic spawned into a little monster, one I didn't think would have an audience. It's nice to have you all along on this journey.


	4. A Budding Naturalist Shares His Findings - or - John Irving Adopts A Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where curios are examined and tea is served.

The walk nearly didn't happen. John waited on his porch, notebook and pencil at the ready for Hickey's arrival. For roughly thirty minutes he paced in front of his own home like a suitor summoning the courage to knock. Only the birds and his own ears heard the repetitive thud of boots against the floorboards. Finally, his frustration took the best of him and he decided to take the initiative. Crushing his hat on his head, he crossed the well-trampled grass path between their properties, a winding trail with sun-baked footprints. John would have taken a straightforward route of course, not one looping around a perfectly ordinary tree stump. 

As he approached his neighbor's house he noticed the minor, modest improvements Hickey made. He rebuilt the old planting beds and started little flowers in a haphazard pattern, their brightly colored heads turned to the sun. He relocated several scrubby looking pines closer to the cottage, their branches sticking out like unruly hairs. In addition, he constructed a window box and stacked chunks of stale bread for a small gathering of birds. They pecked happily, wings fluttering as they hopped and feasted on their bounty. John whistled softly and received a distracted reply, the food far too important to continue their song. 

Hickey tossed the door open before John even made it to the porch. His hair stuck up a bit, obviously mussed from sleep. Even worse was the state of his dress-a complete lack thereof. Shirtless with trousers barely on, the waistband hanging loosely against his narrow hips through memory alone. John glanced at his pocket watch to confirm the time. Yes, it remained the eleventh hour; words failed him.

“You said you would enjoy the company. Did you forget or change your mind?”

“How could I? Come in.” He must have forgotten, John concluded. He wrote it down in his diary, somewhat eager to have a planned social meeting. Hickey blustered through it with little care. John needed to temper his expectations with this man, his authority holding no sway among civilians. 

When he saw the state of Hickey's cottage he wished it still held power. It wasn't filthy, just dreadfully disorganized, a haphazard group of piles stacked here and there. He left clothing piled on a dining chair, all folded thankfully. A mass of bedding lay in front of the fireplace giving John the impression he nested there like a cat. He never knew Hickey was a reader, but the amount of books tossed about spoke otherwise. They needed a bookshelf or a cabinet, something to keep them off the floor at least. More than anything, it seemed to John this man was content to sprawl himself and his belongings out with little regard to the appearance of the space. 

“I see you've made progress with the outside of your home.” John mustered as much politeness as possible to provide at least some praise. A natural inclination towards tidiness urged him to grab the broom currently used to hang socks and begin straightening up, but he held firm. Hickey would receive no help from him, he the master of his own domicile. “You've put together a little space for the birds.” 

A small smile played at the corner of Hickey's lips. “Best way to wake in the morning with them chirping and twittering about. Better than people stomping or silence.” He picked several volumes up from the couch and let them thud onto the floor, an invitation to sit. “I'm planning on doing the same for every window to surround myself with them no matter where I am.” 

“I never figured you for a naturalist. It's pleasing, yes, to have a reminder of God's wonder and majesty so close by.” 

“Have you seen the deer? They are around here with antlers like this.” He raised his hands to his head, fingers splayed wide. “Oh, I found one during my walks.” Hickey darted his eyes about and found it behind some shirts. He placed the antler on his head and transformed into a wood spirit, a guardian to be hand-painted with woad and tamed. “I've yet to see any in person though, but I know soon. I feel it.” 

“I hope you see your animals, Mr. Hickey.” John noted how Hickey held himself with a brightness, his brooding nature transformed to enthusiasm. “Have you found anything else?”

“Yeah, eagle feathers. I even saw one, its claws out as such while he scanned for prey.” He twisted his head in demonstration. “A first for me. We don't have those predators where I'm from. Have you heard their call?”

“I haven't. They've eluded me.” In truth John took the small wonders surrounding them for granted, his attention focused only on the sum and not the parts. How unlike him, his love for mathematics based upon those small building blocks leading to a predictable end. He needed to appreciate both aspects of his new world. “Well, we should deviate from any set path and see if we can make any more discoveries. We may find the other half of that shed.”

“Give me a minute and we'll get going.” Hickey pulled a shirt from the table and disappeared to the back room. 

John picked up the antler and held it to his head. He caught his reflection in a small mirror hanging above the mantle. Though he didn't have the wildness Hickey naturally expressed, it added a certain untamed aspect to his countenance. Like John was a man between worlds yet not at all out of place. 

*

The walk was quite nice, calmer than John expected. He eventually abandoned his notebook and tucked the pencil behind his ear, deferring to Hickey's example to experience the property rather than interpret its needs. Since that day Hickey spent time wandering John's land, expanding his search for more wild things, rocks and feathers to be sure. A regular Mr. Goodsir. During their moments on the rocky Arctic shores, Goodsir crossed the land with his head bent, poking and digging for skeletons or broken shells for study. He lectured his observations to some of the men, but only Gore seemed truly interested, Graham handling the bones and teeth and sketching them into a small notebook. Always by his side playing the role of amateur assistant. 

From time to time Hickey wandered to John's porch and sat down with polite acknowledgment and nothing further. Grass clung to his hair, bare feet tanned, fingers wrapped around some curio he discovered. More than anything he looked content; finding such a center figured strongly into John's plans. He struck out on his own path and placed himself under his command in order to build a world belonging to him. Hickey's free spirit drove him to do the same. The growing sense of kinship led John to leave out a fresh pot of tea and a cup when he saw him circle closer. He laughed the third time he did so, coaxing a stray to domesticity and being rewarded with an empty teapot and a cup placed neatly on the saucer. 

After a few days he kept the door open, for the draft of course. It was only a coincidence Hickey blew in with the gentle breeze. They greeted one another with a growing warmth, a quiet shift of thawing ice, the melt tricking into a waterway, releasing them from a stasis. Extended silences between no longer felt oppressive. Hickey turned his pages while John scratched plans in his notebooks; checklists and grids for gardens with proper planting times, the occasional title of a book to read when he found time. 

When they did converse, John found it most agreeable. Hickey meandered through John's stories, forcing him to jump ahead or back, or leap laterally in an odd dance of words. Together they moved through John's time as a midshipman, a time of little excitement with him withdrawn from others, his religion so strong even then. But Hickey enjoyed his descriptions of his time in the Mediterranean serving on the Belvidera, asking questions upon questions about the heat and the ocean and the air's taste and and and until John grew hoarse, adding honey to his tea to sweeten his throat. And Hickey waited patiently for him to recover and continue. Hickey waited.

How odd to think of the man still, but he did enjoy moments of pause. On one such afternoon John returned home from a solo walk into town and discovered him asleep on the couch, book on his chest and a checkerboard at the ready. He draped a blanket over him and moved quietly around the house, amused at the odd turn of events bringing them together. In another life they walked past each other, swallowed by the press of bodies, a living current sweeping them away, written out of their histories. This room would be empty and John alone, his life too quiet, he shadowed once more. He heard a gentle pulse of breath, a shift of the blanket and John knew everything was as it should. 

“These little moments create a lifetime, Mr. Hickey,” John stated when the game finished. 

“I agree, sir.” Hickey stacked the pieces together, but did not return them to the box. His fingers ran along the column's side as if pondering what would come next. Only the most logical step, a proper beginning. 

“I believe we are at the point where you can call me John.” He reached for the red chips and reset his side. 

“So we are, John.” At the sound of his name John felt a sudden lightness. Cornelius began his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Irving served as a midshipman on board the Belvidera between 1830-1833, stationed in the Mediterranean. Disliking his prospects within the Navy he thought of leaving the service and working the land in New South Wales.


	5. Further Improvements Are Made – or – John Irving Gains A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John considers a list and lengths and Hickey commits murder.

John presented Cornelius with the list and pointedly ignored his look. He had become rather skilled in the interpretation of his facial expressions, all unique and conveying much. This one was incredulous with a tinge of laughter around the eyes. According to John’s observations, the man’s next step was to present an alternative action, a walk for instance. He often agreed in order to not see the slash of disappointment cut across Cornelius’s face, a pout holding devastating sway. John’s desire to please and keep him from disappearing into the treeline made his decision. Their pleasant stroll into town replaced the list of tasks, conversation over ale or sherry rendered them forgotten. Before bed, John filled his diary with illustrations and descriptions of them doing nothing of productive worth, he diverted like a river to irrigate Cornelius’s whims. No longer; he needed to hold fast to his convictions and resist. 

“I'm impressed by how much you plan on doing. I believe I will assist you to the best of my abilities.” Cornelius's grin slicked like mercury. Alas, John lacked immunity to these smiles and how they crackled with energy. The quicksilver licked its way down his chest and along his ribs, a most pleasing warmth. “Must leave time for play, of course,” he cooed, his voice slippery. John fought the urge to tuck the list into his pocket and dash back home for his cap. They needed to work. 

“I know you will find satisfaction because working towards a goal is a great motivator, Cornelius.” Even now his name rolled foreign along his tongue, the faint hiss of the final syllable like a snake. It slammed against his surname, the sharp rise then steep fall of Hickey. _Hick-key_. Not particularly handsome, but a name like Edward or Elijah would be too common, not capturing the facets of his dynamic personality. "I believe you and I can achieve such great things together."

“As do I, John.” Another flash of a smile and John needed to shift his attention elsewhere, his well-practiced discipline threatening to melt into air.

*

** Day One: Chop Firewood For Both Homes **

"Your limbs work, correct?" John hefted the ax and swung it in a neat arc. How satisfying, the sound of wood splitting under his power. He cleared the log and set up another. "I want to make sure you are uninjured, what with you watching and not participating."

Cornelius chewed on a hunk of bread, a thoroughly unearned lunch for a man who whiled away the morning reading and daydreaming. Earlier he splayed himself on the ground and stared at the sky. Every so often he pointed to a perfectly ordinary cloud and proclaim it a shape. "Can you see it? Look at how that angle creates a mouth threatening to breathe fire."

"I see no dragon, only a simple cumulus signaling fair weather," John declared, twisting his head around. He made a frustrated sound and deemed the entire exercise useless, a way to distract from the task at hand. Hence the question about Cornelius's health asked in jest, but also meant to be a bit of a push to see if the man would take the hint and relieve John for a moment.

“I'm in perfect working order.” Cornelius tossed some crumbs to a small blackbird who fed happily. Everything held a new experience for him, this man taken from the shadows and brought into the light. He whistled a little tune, John refrained from responding with his own. “Now you look a bit fatigued.”

"Ah, I am." John held the maul out with the expectation of Cornelius taking it. With a stretch of his limbs, he would work, his swings growing more accurate with practice. A few seconds passed and Cornelius continued to feed his new acquaintance. "Must you ignore me?"

“I'm not ignoring you. I'm only enjoying the fair weather. Mustn't let these cumulus clouds go to waste.” He pointed to the ground beside him and waved his bread. “You must be famished having worked so hard without pause.”

John tightened his grip on the handle and bit back a frustrated reply. He was right. John was famished, his arms heavy ever since he stopped his work like momentum alone drove his action. It made no sense to labor to the point of exhaustion to make up for lost time. That would only lead to sloppiness in his other tasks or an extended bout of laziness. John Irving prided himself in industry and to let the day pass like before without achieving a goal, no matter how small, meant momentary failure and guilt.

“Did you spare something or am I left some meager crumbs not meant for your bird?” John settled next to him and rooted through his bag. Apples, bread, and a chunk of meat; a mercy to have much. He tore from the loaf and wished he had preserves or at least some butter. Next time. “Thank you for your generosity.”

Cornelius shrugged. “I am a provider.” He positioned himself on his stomach and reached for his book.

They sat in a comfortable silence broken by the gentle swish of a turned page and the angry chirp of the forgotten bird. John tossed the remains of his meal its way, the bird setting upon it greedily. “I ought to continue.” He yawned and rolled his shoulders back. “What are you reading?”

Cornelius flipped his hair from his face, the length teetering towards unruly. He appeared rather wild with it long and hiding his handsome features. At least he kept his beard neat. “'Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus'. It's a horror novel involving a scientist who plays God and makes a man-creature. Judging by your look of disgust and your propensity to avoid fiction, I believe you wouldn't like it.”

John bristled. “I prefer the concrete and realistic. No need to concern yourself with my tastes.” He did not condemn Cornelius for his interests, at least not out loud. “Was this available on the ship? Does the man who dared to place himself beside God receive a just punishment?”

"Your impatient questions will not lead me to spoil the plot. Although it begins with the characters at the North Pole, one nearly frozen to death during his travels across the ice. Could you imagine such a nightmare?"

The possibility forced a violent chill down his spine. “No.” He stifled a yawn, his body suddenly so very tired. The book sounded dreadful, but tempting, the type of story where a man could remind himself of his place in the world and not to assume the unnatural. “When you are finished may I read it?”

“Such a thundering tale should not be experienced alone, John. I can read it to you. I don't mind.” Cornelius arched his body into a stretch. He marked his place with his string and shut the book. “Tonight.”

“You believe I enjoy the sound of your voice more than I currently do.” John dropped to the ground, his lids drooping shut. “You've infected me with your sloth and made me idle.”

“I'm honored to be your scourge and condemn you to your fate.” John heard the smile in his voice. The sun felt so warm and he angled his face to take it all in, outstretched his arms and relaxed. A faint rustle of movement then a press of a hand to his shoulder. “Sleep. I'll wake you in an hour.”

John made a pleased noise and drifted off to the sound of whistling and the ring of an ax chunking wood.

*

** Day Two: Repair the Dilapidated Fence **

"This is hopeless!" John tossed his tools down in frustration then immediately stooped to pick them up, shame burning his cheeks. At least he refrained from kicking the entire fence down, his shoddy repairs not worth destroying what worked. "What am I doing incorrectly?"

"The straining post is crooked. Come to my level and see how it is bent slightly to the left. The entire thing is askew and forcing your boards to tilt." He knelt next to Cornelius and saw the flaw. He dug the post in wrong, the soil shifted, then set incorrectly around the wood. So imprecise, his usual deliberation slipped from his mind in his excitement to perform the job. "You're better at angles than I. Provide the orders and I'll dig it steady against the strut and thrust plate."

"Be careful, please. I don't need the entire thing to collapse. I haven't the desire to hire someone." _Or the pride._ He pulled a splinter from the meat of his palm and spit the sliver out, his skin callused and work-roughened. John enjoyed it, the subtle changes in his body's musculature signaling strength and progress. Indeed, he looked like the ideal specimen of a man, strong and defined. The body was meant for action, pursuits stimulating both the physical and the philosophical.

Cornelius grabbed the shovel and set to it. With John's guidance and clever mind and Cornelius's skill with labor, they made short work of the seemingly impossible task. "I am impressed. It looks like a proper fence now."

"I am no layabout, John." Cornelius shed his shirt and flopped onto the grass, a few minutes exertion draining all his valuable energy reserves. The sun, fresh air, and movement suited him, tanned his body and made his face ruddy. His proud and challenging nature transformed and tempered into agreement and good humor. Oh, there were moments where he pushed, but John was well equipped to provide the gentle shove back. "Though there is no need for the fence. I consider the boundaries between our land as arbitrary and unnecessary."

“Fine words from my neighbor in the legal sense only. I suppose that my initial instinct to tear it down completely was correct,” John teased. He flicked a blade of grass in his companion's hair. “You must cut your hair, Cornelius. It's nearly shoulder length.”

“There are no regulations here, only you, me, and God.” The freckles on his face curved along his cheeks and John reciprocated the smile. A surge of joy fluttered like bird wings in his chest. “I must admit, I'm grateful we're here. I see this place as a proper home. I never had one, a real one I mean.”

“You've achieved so much. We are in the history books, our names forever tied to something greater. Irving's Inlet and Hickey's Cove. What an honor for us and our mates to be remembered in such a manner!” Cornelius's face fell slightly, his mouth pursed as he pondered a thought John was not privy to. It was so foreign to see him almost distressed. “Are you well? You appear a bit pale.”

"Just pondering what would have been. I did well with the fence, John. Me, I did." He cleared his throat, but still, his voice held a bit of tightness and tension. "Did I do a good job helping you repair it?"

"You are the sole reason why the task was completed without cursing and injury." John clasped a reassuring hand on his shoulder, skin still hot and sweaty from the sun and work. He never saw him lacking confidence, the equilibrium of his nature thrown off. It left him uneasy. Reflexively, John remembered some polite words of praise he used on some men who needed a bit of comfort during their journey. Too impersonal, all generalities; earnest yet maintaining a level of necessary distance. He chose the words honestly. "I would be a lonely fool without you, Cornelius. In a way, the effort to prove your silent doubts incorrect is the greatest motivator, beyond my own stubbornness."

“Me judging you closely sets you right.” Cornelius's laughter vibrated John's palm, his hand having found its way down to his mid-back, fingers resting between the prominent notches of his spine. John grew grateful he regained his usual demeanor. “I feel this was fine progress for the day. The fence is repaired and the work improved us within a reasonable limit.”

“Are you suggesting we abandon the rest of our tasks?” John frowned and mentally ran through his list. He needed to make some minor fixes to his home, but none urgent. Cornelius needed to build a bookcase, the wood gathering dust leaning against the wall. The window boxes, the fireplaces needed sweeping, the garden weeding...

“Not at all, only we ought to take it slow and spend the day inside.” Cornelius folded a thick blade and grass and blew a sharp sound, his eyes persuading John to his side.

He scoffed. "I hope you aren't passing everything off to me. We agreed to it."

Cornelius made a non-committal sound. "Not at all. I wanted to start on the gaps between your floorboards for one. I'd teach you, but I don't know if you are ready for such responsibility." He patted John's thigh and stood, his hand extended. He should never have shared how Cornelius drove him to do better. _Still_. John accepted the help up, eager to prove him wrong.

*

** Day Four: Tend to Cornelius's Garden **

"I am no farmer, but I thought these would grow better." Cornelius paced around the plot as if a new perspective would show cabbage leaves and not desiccated and miserable looking shrivels. "I expected to be buried in them at this point."

John poked at a head, so small and tragic looking, a victim and not a source of nourishment. “I have no idea what you've done wrong. Mine are grown quite well, a heartier garden you cannot find.” He puffed his chest proudly. The cabbages and tomatoes and onions were coming in beautifully under his attention, eager to be harvested. This was the type of creation that Frankenstein character should have done. Nothing more satisfying than tending and caring for a fortifying vegetable.

Cornelius gave him a shove and yanked a cabbage leaf between two fingers with disgust. It released from the plant and was promptly tossed aside. “Do you think I drowned the poor bastards?”

“A possibility. Once a week is more than enough when it's well saturated. You must study these things as this is the result.”

"Who knew farmers could sound so utterly smug?" He kicked the cabbage, its loose little head rolling across the soil, mottled form staring up at John for help. "Any chance you can expand your garden for two?"

“No. I am willing to assist, but I am not playing the role of your wife, Cornelius.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straighter, chin up to demonstrate the sureness of his statement. “I've provided you enough.”

Cornelius exhaled quickly from his nostrils and gave a quick shake of his head. "If you were my wife, you'd provide me more." Oh, he'd surely pass his laundry and mending off, John was certain. The day he washed Cornelius Hickey's drawers would be the day he'd abandon this entire experiment, he obviously caught in a madness necessitating medical attention. "I suppose I'll starve then," he said, clapping his hands together as if the statement settled the topic. Not on John's watch.

“God provides. You could try your hand at raising chickens?” John shrugged. Cornelius brightened, his entire being perking up like John's lovely garden. Well then, a mutually beneficial suggestion. “I propose the following to you,” he started, casually making his way to Cornelius's side. “If you successfully rear the birds, and I truly believe you will as God cannot let you fail with flora _and_ fauna, and they produce eggs, I will humbly trade you my bounty of vegetables in exchange.”

“Me tending to a flock. Yeah, that seems fair enough.” He scanned the property as if already making plans for a coop. John could not help but do the same, mentally piecing it together, them measuring and hammering the little chicken house into an appropriate structure. An easy sacrifice for fresh eggs and a chicken dinner every now and again, a little hen surrounded by John's plentiful vegetables. They would feast like kings when Cornelius proved himself talented, neither man starving.

Not like Cornelius would at any point. He'd give him a share of his crop no matter what, in the interest of fairness. After all, the pleasure of his company was equitable exchange enough.

*

** Day Six **

"This is no way to spend a day, Cornelius." Yet John did not make a move to stand. He pillowed his head on his palms and dug his heels into the ground. Every so often he'd accept a pass of the bottle, the port not his first choice, but fitting for the mild afternoon. The birds called above them, communing loudly in a language only God understood. He made His presence known here every day in the little plump black bodies dancing in the boughs; in the delightful stillness existing between John and his friend.

What a lovely word, friend. Such relationships never came naturally to John. He understood his temperament left him best suited to sitting on the edges of conversations, folding his face and body into a more agreeable form and murmuring through discussions. Too gloomy, too stuck in his way, too religious-as if anyone could be too faithful! John spent too many years of his young life asking himself if he was who he wanted to be. Now he could say with certainty, yes. 

“I know, we were doing so well with your list.” Cornelius sat beside him, his knees drawn to his chest. “But you can understand why even God took his rest." He peered at John with a studying expression like he were a cloud or an unfamiliar bird call. "And you say my hair is getting long."

He reached for John with a work-strong hand and tugged a limp lock to his brow. Yes, it was a bit longer than it ought to, in need of a quick trim before it became shaggy. He cannot attract a wife looking a mess. “I'll have it sorted by next week.”

"Don't. It suits you. You're allowed to be a bit unkempt, John." His fingers remained in John's hair, a light pressure as he measured the length of it; brushed along his head, nimbly massaging a careful path against his scalp. John felt reduced to the status of a house pet, domesticated and fussed over. Cornelius, his attentive owner, hummed as he stroked through such an intimate gesture of care and affection.

“Too long,” John murmured. They held each other's gazes, John's blood roaring through his ears, he unable to do anything but focus on the touch. A buzz vibrated in his core and tickled his limbs, he suddenly weak, this like those little smiles, each one a transformational experience. “Much too long.”

“Yes.” And with that Cornelius regained hold of the wine and promptly finished the bottle.


	6. Interlude – or – Letters and Goods Are Exchanged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we intercept letters, receive goods, and learn of fates and stories untold.

⥿

⥿

BILLY, - . . .

I’m happy your decision to invest in a dock warehouse turned profitable. Understand I’ll never join you in London, my time there concluded. The cobblestone roads echo in the soles of my shoes and dig into my spine. Tell me, does the underbelly still stink like a corpse or is your world perfumed?

I bathe myself in the rain and hear the birds call. The grass is soft underfoot. 

It's been too long in all aspects. I sleep with your glove on my pillow. 

You're a bastard.

⥿

MY DEAR EDWARD, - . . .

I received your letter days ago and am hopeful you will get this prior to leaving for Malta, a journey I expect to be safe and pleasant. I must thank you for your kind words regarding my current attempts to work the land and strive forward on my own path. I have, at times, personal doubts as to my chances here, but I know all attempts are made under my own volition, as are the successes and obstacles. God willing, my hand is steady and my thoughts clear. The work I undertake is all at once gratifying and frustrating, but when I sleep, I rest easy with the knowledge I achieved what I would never have done without taking steps forward. I repaired a fence and have undertaken the design of a stable, a copy of the image I enclosed, for I believe a horse will be a wise acquisition. The walk to town isn't far, but I cannot help but look out at my land and imagine a colt dashing across the field, mane dancing in the wind. It is a romantic image to be sure, but I believe I always had a touch of natural awe within, locked behind a cabinet, hidden from view, a necessity when working. I heard the bolts rattle in my chest, the desire to experience a world I never could while on a ship echoed through my limbs; here I am. To wake to birds and hear the distant call of an eagle! It holds beauty in its simplicity.

And I concur in your shock at my growing friendship with Cornelius. There are moments where I cast my eyes on him and wonder how it happened, we being of such different temperaments, but our spirits are similar enough to leave me with the following conclusion. Our desires to forge ahead and make our own way in the world led us here, our lives rooted along the same stretch of earth.

I will now finish my letter by expressing my delight at the assured success of your new command. I include a pressing of a token from solid land, a peony, grown from a seed and tended by the hands of your affectionate friend JOHN IRVING.

⥿

CORNELIUS, - . . .

I am not a bastard, but you may continue to feel I am as you cannot hear my heartbreak. The warehouse grows, a success, and I am proud of the progress made. To that, I owe to you, your words of distant shores with sandy beaches and warm water a means to guide me to where I am. The Thames is no Pacific, those cobblestones hollow in comparison to the beach meant to support our home. At times I see the sails sway and imagine flowing palms, the silks I pack and unload in brilliant colors pale when held up to the bright blue sky, the sun yellow as it descends into the ocean and bursts into oranges and crimson and pinks. Your hand is warm and your flesh warmer still, the ocean salting your skin as we claim the sand. 

I dream of you, but I can’t stay asleep forever.

⥿

JOHN, - . . .

Many thanks for the kind gift, a most unexpected one which demonstrates the heartiness of the very flora you threaten with attention. I jest, but according to Mr. Goodsir it is a fine specimen and you ought to have great pride in the successful cultivation. He insisted I include a list of species you ought to identify, from ferns to conifers to grasses. You will find the page of Latinized mosses fascinating I am certain. All I know is the thistle and I am quite content to leave it at that, though Mr. Goodsir did not appreciate such an opinion. I do share his wonderment of the Mediterranean, Malta is not formed, but painted and carved. I know you hate it passionately, but to see it in this new role as a Captain imbues it with greater meaning. The Harbour is quite crowded and lively with servicemen and their families and throngs of beggars, all filled with a great potential. It grows quite taxing to sit and wait for orders that do not come. How to keep these men from twisting in the wind is a question I face often, but the surroundings please enough to keep them from becoming truly restless. 

The men bathe daily, a pleasure I partake in. Mr. Goodsir expanded his awkward paddling along the shore to a proper stroke. No longer must I contemplate tying a rope around his waist in case the worst occurred as he poked around the water for sea creatures of differing edibility. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten octopus and my gustatory memory took a time to return, the texture growing pleasant with exposure. The local fish are bountiful and delicious when baked into pies, though a simple cheese pastry has become a staple during my meals. I worry I may become gluttonous without a friend of good Christian character nearby!

You’ve made the correct choice and know wherever you take root you shall always have the support of your friend, EDWARD LITTLE

⥿

MR. IRVING, - . . .

I have sent goods at my expense. Distribute evenly and without divulging the source. Please feel free to correspond if you or Mr. Hickey are in need of anything.

William Gibson  
Junior Investor and Supervisor  
Stephens, Whitmore, Harper, & Gibson  
Blackwell Docks

INVENTORY:

TOILETRY: 

One (1) tin and copper plunge tub - oversized  
Ten (10) two packs of castile soap  
Four (4) tins of pulverized chalk tooth powder - clove flavored to ensure sweet breath  
Two (2) brushes for the maintenance of dental hygiene

GENTLEMAN’S LINEN: 

_For CH_

Day-shirts, 6  
Nightshirts, 2  
Night-cap, tasselled, 1  
Thin drawers, 3  
Thick drawers, 3  
Braces, 2

KITCHEN: 

Two (2) roasting pans

MISC.:

Four (4) heavyweight quilts - two blue, two white  
One (1) brass and leather telescope  
_A History of British Birds, Yarrell_  
Map of Sandwich Islands

⥿

PERSONAL - WANTED - A young retired first Lieutenant from the Royal Navy is seeking a correspondence with a young lady above 20 years of age. I am anxious to wed, a wife my most desired addition to an already satisfactory life. She must be pious and devoted to pastoral pursuits and pleasures, unafraid of tending to both house and husband. I offer a home in need of a feminine touch, large plot of land, a generous pension as bestowed by Her Majesty, tales of adventure, and my undying love and affection. I imagine the future we shall build together and am eager for you to address … JI, xxx, Scotland

⥿

⥿

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a break from the typical structure, but I rather enjoy writing in a different style from time to time. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing their correspondences. 
> 
> A historical note! Malta was a Royal Navy Dockyard, a key location for the Mediterranean Fleet. Irving found it 'as dull and tiresome and just the same as ever...shore thronged with midshipmen.' He was expressly lonely and frustrated during his time there, likely adding to his dislike. 
> 
> The Maltese foods: Lampuki Pie, a traditional fish pie; pastizzi, a savory pastry filled with ricotta or mushy peas.
> 
> Another note! Matrimonial advertisements existed in the Victorian era. It was an alternative to traditional courtship, common among those with no social ties in a new location. https://tinyurl.com/victmatads & https://tinyurl.com/ydydpezn have more information.


	7. A Worthy Man - or - John Irving Thinks of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John considers the carrot, a novel is read, and Cornelius learns geometry.

⸙ ⸎

_“Oh! I beg of you, my Jane.” Thomas collapsed to his knees and clutched her shawl between his trembling hands. They stained with soil and work, callused enough to threaten to tear the gossamer lace and silk, but she did not push him aside or treat him coolly. Rather she fell to her knees, her eyes crystal blue plates glazed with the icing of affection._

_“You may be poor, but you are richer in spirit than all other men.” His darling girl lost her usual timidity and grew open and affectionate. She brought her fingers to his face. His heart! “Understand, though I am intended for Mr. Evans, I will forever consider myself to be Mrs. Thomas Worthy.”_

_Oh! for a miracle. To be more than his station, he not a humble farmer toiling on her ancestral land! His head filled with romances, a vision of him, standing triumphantly beside her, he a knight eager to sweep her into his dreams._

**

John sighed heavily and reached for the letter, floral scented and sweetly written, as lovely as the book she sent for his perusal. Miss M shared her thoughts and desires regarding the romance and beauty of the country. To her rural life held a certain “air and grace only a man and wife can appreciate. I see in you Thomas, honorable and kind; I pray you to treat me as he treats Jane. And I will embrace you as she does him, specifically as described between the pages of 203-5, if you ever deem me 'Worthy'.”

His heart spun a waltz, his mind whirled with possibilities. She may be the one, she among the rather paltry number of letters he received, the amount bringing him shame. His pension and vision of a future were not enough to secure their attention. But Miss M! John returned his attention to the novel, it unfurling from a simple romance between different stations to a mystery regarding the true nature of Thomas's birth. And now the hero and his beloved stood alone in his home, their declarations of a love understood yet unspoken soon to be uttered!

_“My love for you is a carrot-”_

“Like a carrot?” John frowned and shook his head. Love was not a nutrient-rich vegetable, but a cloud one floats on, a lilt in the heart, the gentle crest of waves.

_“My love for you is a carrot, growing firm in your soil, bathed in your waters, tended by your hands.”_

“Women don't find carrots romantic,” he questioned.

_“I long to be plucked and brushed, washed and carried to your lips then slipped along your tongue.”_

His brows shot to his forehead and remained pinned there as he read and re-read the sentence. The author must have gone mad during the creation of this scene. He did not want to flip ahead, but he needed to understand where this was going as it appeared the romance took a sudden turn to the descriptive.

_-breasts heaving, she reached for his trousers, the proud line of his-_

“No!” He skimmed further.

_Thomas lowered her to the bed and she parted her thighs, auburn hairs bearing a precious pearl-_

“This is pornography!” No, surely something was amiss, this printed in error. Jane, a creature of such innocence wrapped in the mantle of her virtue would never allow herself to be taken before marriage, even by a man as honorable as Thomas. Having discovered he was not born to a poor farmer, but a newborn founding, the son of a sea-lost Earl and Countess. Thomas Worthy of name and manners and status, all questionable now as he-

_He slipped inside her, feminine flesh trembling and he held her close. She gasped at the rigidity and size of his rod, it broaching her virginity, her passage wet to ease him deeper. He took care to not move until his beautiful Jane implored him with love-brimmed eyes to continue._

Face warm with frustration, he dropped the book to his lap. They were in love, Thomas and Jane, their lives wholly devoted to their well-being. They were sure to be wed, their intentions as clear as water. However, it moved from clasping hands to penetration with such swiftness! No courtship, no more flowers or sweets, no furtive glances and stolen touches away from the prying eyes of her lady's companion. Nothing left to the imagination, either!

_“What beautiful form your body takes, my love.” Thomas sighed and moved as a maddening sense of pleasure took him, her rounded curves-_

He was a fool to believe Miss M's intentions were polite. His options were so slim already; a widow with two children and a woman of considerable dispassion and miserly temperament. Once again, John Irving found himself waylaid by cruel fate. But this was God's design and He knew John's place in the world better than John himself. All would unfold, it still unwritten, unlike this piece of work.

Goodness, what would happen if a woman of certain bearing discovered it on a shelf? She'd succumb to collapse, her mind racing with such thoughts until she no longer functioned in polite society! Reduced to following the need held betwixt her thighs and not her ears. He frowned and pondered what to do with the book. The only option was to send it back to Miss M with an admonishing letter. Though he enjoyed the pleasures associated with the fairer sex, they were not at the proper stage for them to discuss what was on the pages. You misunderstand me, Miss M, he rebuked in thoughts, I am no randy man seeking a woman for play alone. I am desiring a wife, a symbol of domestic elegance and duty.

Right.

He frowned and bounced the pad of his thumb against the page. There was brown paper in a drawer. It was only a matter of moving to retrieve it and then sending it off, the letter included to wish her the best in her search.

But.

He was nearly done with the book. Beyond the explicitness of their joining, it held his attention; the characters well-crafted and the reveal of Thomas's true origins handled with an elegance the rest of the novel now lacked. And it was not as if he couldn't handle a bit of intimacy, he familiar and experienced. Now the initial shock slowly wore away, it was only fair to finish what he devoted precious time and mental resources to. After all, they were intended for one another, Thomas and Jane. Complete the book and then hide it. 

_“Oh, oh, Thomas! Thomas,” Jane sighed. And oh! Oh, a greater sense of her beauty emerged as she drew her thighs up and over, oh! Thomas became inflamed by her passion, he longing for more as he tightened his buttocks, it driving his thrusts. The scent of her flesh and their combined sex intoxicated him greater than any alcohol and drew him closer to-_

“John!”

He leaped from the couch, the book clattering to the floor. He nearly followed, his foot catching the very edge of the rug. “Bugger me, Cornelius! Cornelius.” He found his balance and cleared his throat. Stood stiffly, his shoulders drawn tight. “Cornelius, what may I do for you?”

The man's face was a blend of amusement and curiosity, he dragging his gaze with a slow sweep. “I was merely visiting,” he stated precisely, his words wrapped by an oddly formal tone. His attention moved from John's face and the book. “You were so involved in your reading my voice startled. I can assume it's another math tome. Why don't you let me pick it up for you? Let you recover.”

“No need.” John extended his foot and slowly drew the book closer to him with his heel. “Euclidean geometry.” He chuckled and gave it one final nudge so it slipped under the couch. “Well, I'll get that later.”

“Why wait? Let me retrieve it now. I've discovered a sudden curiosity about the nature of lines.” Cornelius strolled, no glided closer with a calculating smile on his lips. Slick, the man planning. Well, John dedicated his entire life to planning; no man could best him.

“Lines in the Euclidean sense? I have a book over there that explains his axioms.” He gestured to his desk, to one of the many copies of Elements he's collected over the years. “Go and fetch one.”

Head tilted, Cornelius took a step forward, tightening the distance to arms' length. “I want that book, it being the one I am certain to answer all my questions. It's a matter of me simply reaching for it and delivering it safely.”

“It's in Latin.”

“Ad hoc,” he challenged. “Ego.” The cheek!

“No need for it really. I can lecture from here. It's rather simple to picture, but you should get some paper. From home.” Seeing no movement, John frowned. Very well, he will bore the man. “Euclid's first axiom is a line segment can be created by joining two points. That forms the basis of his second, a line being any line segment extended into infinity without end.”

Their eyes met and Cornelius pounced, his body a spring as he dove to the ground and reached under the couch. John dropped onto him, simultaneously attempting to pull him back while struggling to grasp the novel. Stirring loins and precious female pearls; he'd never hear the end of it, this his legacy if Cornelius had his way.

He mounted him and grasped his waist, wrapped his fingers around the end of his braces and held tight. Between the pulling and struggle, the fabric ripped, the loops popping clear from the waistband. “Really?” Cornelius shouted. John paused, startled. An apology bubbled up, ending when his friend flailed his free hand behind him and found a target.

“My ear!” John barked when it was held and twisted, his tugging threatening to rip it from the root. He dropped heavily against his friend to prevent a sudden and irreversible maiming. He grunted and pushed his hand around his belly to find a new area of attack. Cornelius cursed as fingers pinched, let out a pained groan. “I'll relent if you release me.” With no response, John slipped his thumb into his navel and prodded as hard as he could.

“Fine!” John released him, Cornelius twisting onto his side to survey the damage. His shirt yanked up, John white with shame when he saw several bright ovals blooming red. “My pants! And look here! Your abuse will leave me bruised!”

“You bruised? My ear was nearly detached!” He rubbed gingerly, it throbbing angrily. “Was that necessary,” he trailed off, Cornelius's hand slipping from under the sofa, triumphantly. He held the book up, it covered with dust, signaling two forms of panic, both united by one word: filth.

“You really ought to clean, John. Your dust will make me sneeze!” He examined the cover. “'A Worthy Beginning Vol. I: A Farmer's Romp With Romance While In Search For the Truth' by JP. A romp? You are not the romping type.”

“Return it,” he muttered, pouting. He made a move to snatch it, but Cornelius reached out and John recoiled, covered his ears protectively. “Please, don't. Cornelius, if you value me, don't.”

“I can value you and romp with the truth at the same time. Where are the diagrams? The angles and segments?” He flipped through and released a bark of laughter. “What's this? 'He buried his face between her thighs and tasted the rarest of flavors.'”

“No! No,” John shouted, dropping his face into his hands. To be invisible! “I thought I was sent a simple rural romance, not that. Believe me, this is all very surprising.”

“Listen to this work of geometry. 'Jane adjusted her position, her mouth sucking his thickness as he tasted her, their bodies delicious desserts.' Now, are those true lines or only segments? We need to diagram this to be sure.” He bit back a smile and held a flush above his cheekbones, impressed by the crudeness of the book. John shook his head, it a terrible influence on someone who so very trying.

“It was a shameful gift. Now it's a, a burden I must suffer thanks to your teasing.”

“Oh, come off it. You act as if you are the sole man who has read something like this.” He dropped his tone to conspiratorial level, John leaning close in an echo of his posture. “I assure you copies of worse rotated through both ships.” He touched his nose.

“I do not need to hear about the actions of my former crew.” If he met them again, he'd like to look them full in the eye and not think of the books they used. Novels surely well-worn, battered, the men who were literate fueled by the words, the uneducated relying on the pictures. He made a face, blanched, transported to the limited space of the ship, the men crammed like pickles in a barrel. All they had at that point were their thoughts, no woman on board, the years long. The creaking of the ropes against the wood, his fellow man succumbing to their biology. He included, the action necessary for health and restoring his mind from the distractions of his own loneliness. Cornelius focused on him, eyes melting him like the braziers in the ice. John's skin rippled as if he were being stripped layer by layer, he exposed to his friend’s judgment.

“I never read them, I didn't need to.” What a curious statement. John's mouth opened to ask for clarification. With a tap of his finger to his forehead, Cornelius continued, “I prefer this, vast library of the imagination.”

Damn his mouth. “I don't need to picture you in such a manner.” Really, he's seen enough of him, exposed in the rain during his jaunts outside. Dripping a trail and leaving wet footprints when he treated John's home like a Turkish bathhouse. Half the time he expected Cornelius to call for him to bring a tray of fruits or to fan him, he the little king of one (1) tin and copper plunge tub - oversized. Standing bare-arsed in front of the fireplace, whistling a little tune and asking John what they were to eat for supper.

With his brows raised, Cornelius looked quite amused at his statement. “That's a shame. I've been told I am quite handsome when in the throws.” His smirk faltered a bit then recovered quickly, a momentary tic. “No matter. This conversation isn't one for you.”

“They never are,” John muttered. He set his jaw and briefly met his friend’s eyes, Cornelius suddenly concerned and interested in his statement. He held his tongue and kept his attention on the rug, the pile dirty and in need of a solid beating. 

“I believe you wish it were the opposite. Am I correct?” A flicker of concern, enough for John to nod sharply, once. “What then?” Placed a hand on John’s ankle and stroked lightly along the top of his foot in comfort. He did not shy away from the three gaps where toes once were, they removed from frostbite; the missing nail of the large toe, a callus in its stead. It could have been worse, everything could have been worse. God’s will protected them and brought them here, their home. “At the very least, was the content of the book engaging? Prior to its sudden turn?”

“Yes, very. I grew to enjoy their tale and have become attached to their seemingly honorable love. I do not want them to remain in stasis, but I do not think I can read it without hearing you laugh at their...geometries.”

“Do not drag me into your insecurities. You are an adult, John. No virgin, I imagine.”

“Cornelius. How to explain this simply for your prodding mind: it does not feel proper to read about these acts.” 

“And yet you were involved to the point of ignoring my calls three times. Three.” He held up his fingers in emphasis. “And the conversations aren’t yours due to your inability to face what is natural to man. Our God-given right to _fuck.”_

“How crude! To reduce it to such a vulgar statement.” He paused, cheeks heated as he worked the words out in his mind. That intimacy between a husband and wife must remain between them, it sacred. The highest expression of devotion. “When you give your life to another, your world simultaneously expands and shrinks. So, the things shared with friends, these tales of conquests end and become private.”

As if he ever had such discussions! He was red-eared and shamed to enter a brothel upon their return home. He will never forget the stares of his own men when they saw him. Heather made the sign of the cross and John retreated into the shadows, hid until he was drawn back into the light by a woman's hand, red oiled nails pinning their palms together. 

“Is it fear?”

“Fear? Of what?”

“Of being intimate.”

“No, of course not!” He shook his head, the question silly. He enjoyed pleasure. He merely longed to share it with someone who reflected love back at him, whose murmured words of affection reached his ears instead of the faint jangle of coins. John sighed, empty.

“I’ve observed you prior to our friendship. You walked through the corridors like a man embarrassed to breathe. I close my eyes and see you with a woman,” he demonstrated and held his right hand extended, conducting an orchestra. “You handsome and she willing, but you shaking, as if you’ll do something in error. She calling you,” he paused, John tense with discomfort. “What do you say?”

“What do I say?” He opened his mouth to speak, it held open soundlessly. Proving Cornelius’s point. “Am I in love with her or is she compensated?”

“She a prostitute? Nah, I write into your story the one you love. Let us describe her to mold her into life.” His lids opened and his keen eyes seemed to turn darker, shifting. “I present you her rib.”

“I’m not one for flights of mind, Cornelius.” But still, he accepted it, turned it, the object cold, warming under his touch. Delicate. Like her, small framed, smooth-skinned. Her waist pinched and her hips wide, a swell to her belly. He felt the slight heft of her breasts, the point of her nipples. Expressive eyes the color of where the sky met the ocean. Her nose sharp and lips pink, her hair a curtain of sunset gold curls, ribbons pouring past her shoulders and down her back.

She complying and yielding, though a bit of boldness held its appeal. She unafraid to challenge and tease. She dashed away from him before pausing, daring him to follow and he did! To feel her press into his arms, her lips finding his, her lips finding his throat, his fingers to her spine, aligning their bodies, her nose sharp, her eyes a cloudless sky.

“Do you see her, John?”

He blinked and Cornelius smiled as only he could, his entire bearing a provocation, but of what John would never know. “I do.”

“Is she lovely?”

“All others pale in comparison.” She a rose drawing all the color from the world. He flushed, but she was redder still, she a point drawing men closer, but her hand reached for he alone. “She calls for me?”

“Yes. ‘John’, she whispers. You before her trembling.”

“I wouldn’t be trembling, she is my beloved. I suppose I would kiss her, she receptive. We being wedded, we would.” He swallowed thickly, his mouth dry as if he passed handfuls of flour down his throat. “I am not afraid, nor am I ashamed. I prefer to share these moments with her alone. I am not crude or a braggart.”

“Even when you are alone? Or is that particular sin one which dares not approach you?” Why must he go on, what in the world formed his mind to question the private actions of others? “I consider you one of the lucky ones, you satisfied unlike the rest of us rabble, our blankets moving when our imaginations took us by the hand.”

Of course, he understood the weakness, the temptations when only the mind existed for such company. But to admit it so freely; is this what the conversations among men shifted towards? He never spoke of such things with either Malcolm or George. Even when he and Edward were at their most friendly, they filled with drink during one of their few moments of true relaxation, the conversation never strayed to sex. He was uncertain Edward even had a woman in his life! Surely he wasn’t one of those captains who had a woman at every port, he juggling them. What else didn’t he know about his friends?

“All men do from the most honorable to those who are stepped over, that is for certain. And do not be ashamed. We cannot walk through our lives bowed at the shoulders, our head dipped low lest we meet our own reflection.”

The bitterness in Cornelius’s words, choked John, his own anger slowly rising, it a slight against his essence. “Is that how you saw me? Before, on the ship, I was a man who walked with such little certainty of self?”

“You did at times. No longer, thankfully. But if you are going to retreat into yourself when you imagine your time with a woman,” he held a finger up, silencing John’s immediate instinct to object, “then you must try to hold yourself with confidence. Trust when I say you will need time with these women, John.”

Insulted, his temper rose sharply then fell. He was correct. Cornelius was simply correct; even when in society, when surrounded by women acquaintances vouched for, John remained unsteady. Conversation failed, he lucky enough to draw them in with his handsome features. Charming he was not, the type of man who preferred murmuring his assent along the edges of discussions, he sharing his views with the young woman and drawing her words out. Best to listen to her than to attempt to lead.

He fell back onto the floor and stared at the ceiling, the spacious room suddenly crushing. “It can never be so simple, hm? Nothing can be as easy as a chance encounter on the grounds between a simple man and an extraordinary woman.” He felt exhausted at the very prospect of, of everything, really.

Cornelius dropped into view and joined him, pressed himself tightly between John and the couch. The book was thudded onto John's chest, the very origins of this odd conversation remembered. “If it were so simple as the shedding of a coat, I don't believe we'd learn anything.”

“It’s a journey. My words.” Cornelius tilted his head in acknowledgment and John felt a surge of pride. One of their earlier conversations still echoed, a lasting influence. “We’ve come far, you and I.”

“We’ll go farther.” As soon as he said it, Cornelius snapped his mouth shut, his skin pink. He cleared his throat. “After all we have much to do on our properties. Stable nearly done. But I keep distracting you from your tasks. Your hair is a bit too long, your work occupies less time, and here you were idling your afternoon away with a book.” He stretched onto his side, his left arm extended and under his head. “Where'd you get this anyway? You said this was a gift.”

“A woman I was corresponding with sent it. Her letter is there.” A thrust of his thumb to the couch cushion, Cornelius reaching and feeling blind until paper crinkled loudly. “I placed a matrimonial advertisement to find a wife.”

“I see.” The silence extended, it filling the room like humidity; oppressive. A draft suddenly carried it away when Cornelius cleared his throat, the letter held between them. “‘Dear Mr. Irving, what a thrill it was to see your letter, your response so generous in both spirit and vision.’ Her perfume’s a bit much if you were to ask me.”

“I didn’t, but you are correct. Astringent.” He picked up where Cornelius paused. “‘A rural life for you and I alone, all distractions gone. We wrapped up in our joys, our universe reduced to us.’ Hm.” Upon reading it he felt a bit enclosed, strangled. Cornelius pushed against him to see the rest of the letter. “Here is where she mentions the book being a guide to a life she wished to pursue. Explicitly, I imagine.”

“Shall I look and see what is on those pages she specified? Or will you do so and share your findings with me?” John volunteered no answer and pointedly ignored Cornelius's huff of amusement. “I'll be certain to seek out the second volume for my own edification. Perhaps I'll let you borrow it if you haven't made an effort to purchase it already.”

“One day we may speak freely of such topics. Us growing comfortable. I being in search of a wife will need your wise counsel.” 

“You don’t need me to be by your side.” He inhaled sharply and John shifted to give him some room, they tucked together like bunkmates. It wasn’t that he minded them being so close; it was they had so much space so why not splay out a bit. Cornelius must have felt otherwise, he slipping nearer as if they held a secret no one else could hear. “When you wed, will you abandon me?”

A bubble rose into his throat, a tightening which pressed into his chest, compressed the slender tube connected to his lungs. “Never! You are so very important to me. Any woman who cannot see your value will not be worthy of attention.” 

“I will not have to refer to you as Mr. Irving in her presence, then? The former Lieutenant Irving.” 

“That’s another lifetime. Am I to call you Mr. Hickey again? Hm? Order you about the property or above the deck to perform repairs and maintenance.” The property. When did their respective lands become one? They on the floor like midshipmen in the cockpit. That space so crowded and poorly lit, them rotating hammocks and cramming into the small pallet, two at a time between studies and duties. 

“Hickey.” The name hissed. “Another life." John watched the dance of frustration on his brow, how it twitched to the corners of his lips. “You’re happy now.” 

“Yes. I am. I am not lacking, but I can always grow.” Self-improvement, moving forward, but not forgetting what came before. “Are you? Happy?”

Cornelius’s mouth remained a thin line, his eyes searching John’s face. Forehead wrinkled, he working through thoughts he would not share with John. Someday, hopefully soon. All men held their secrets, memories held tightly to their chest. “I’m reaching it. I am still finding who I am.” John shifted onto his side. The book clunked to the floor between them. “Now, how did Thomas find Jane in the passage you were so intently studying?” He grinned and nudged John’s leg with his knee. 

“Oh, stop.” A small part of him did not want him to, the teasing a relief, a bit of comfort. “Look at us. How easily we’ve tangled together, hm? Our roots grow.” A sudden grin crossed his lips, spreading wide. “Our friendship is like a carrot, Cornelius. Tended by our hands.” 

He accepted the flushed, concerned look of confusion as he collapsed, reduced to laughter. All attempts to explain spluttered miserably so he ceased. Instead, he clutched Cornelius’s hand where he felt the faintest tremble, he too surely biting back his own mirth.

**Coda**

⸙ ⸎

_Thomas felt the wind through his hair, the breeze stroking the grasses and the leaves. “Oh, darling,” he said. “Now that I have taken my inheritance from my wicked uncle, I can shower you with rubies and diamonds! Speak your desire and see it realized!”_

_Jane clung to his arm and sighed. “Thomas, my truest desire will come true? I only need to speak it?” He swept her to his chest and imagined her wearing a necklace of pearls, dripping down her slender throat to her expansive bosoms. “Then, my husband, I only wish for you to kiss me. Will you indulge me such richness?”_

_“Oh, Jane!” He dipped her close, their lips sealing their love forevermore._

_**Their romance shall continue! Next Volume: A Worthy Middle: A Romp Across the Pirated Seven Seas** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit of a struggle, but I had so much fun writing the adventures of Thomas and Jane. I won't lie, of all the things I've written, "My love for you is a carrot" is my greatest achievement.


	8. A Question Asked - or - John Irving Provides an Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a button is discovered after a story is told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to all who have read and commented so far. I'd be writing into a void without your kindness.

Though he realized early on he did much of the sharing in their conversations only now did he reach the point of frustration. He did not want to pry, to force open a lock his friend wished to keep shut, but to hear him speak and not _speak_ grew tedious. Oh, he kept his mouth and tongue slick, but usually to drive John’s anecdote and steer him to and fro. While he did not mind talking, they had been friends for some time and still, the shroud held tight. Gossamer thin it clung like spiders' silk. Whatever threads unconsciously unraveled soon healed like a wound, a white scar hidden by clothing. Vulnerability was a temporary state for Cornelius Hickey, a human condition he pushed aside. Hope remained yet hope without action led to no progress.

They sat on Cornelius's porch, John in the rocking chair with his friend at his knee. If he were a cat he'd be dangerously close to having his tail pinched.

“Tell me, are you close to your family?” He allowed the question to breathe, for Cornelius to gather his thoughts and air them with a respectful answer. Several beats passed and no such response. Not even an attempt to shift the topic. Throwing caution aside John pounced on the moment, it a possible opening. “I would imagine they are proud of you considering your role in our successful expedition.” The silence held, Cornelius's attention drawn to the distance. The trees unchanging and the sky, cloudless. The air shifted cool signaling the sun's arc to close another day. “Our names were printed in nearly every newspaper. I can,” he hesitated, then rammed forward in a nervous bluster. “I can see your family saving the clippings in a small book.”

“John, why assume they live?” His voice chipper and wrapped in false pleasantries held an edge of a warning. No, John would not heed the unspoken. They had come farther than before, he actually inquiring aloud and not running a silent dialogue in his mind. “Have you imagined such a possibility?”

Of course he did, John did not toss himself into anything without a bit of planning. However, it felt rude to simply ask if they were dead. He was no great conversationalist, far from it, but goodness he had tact. It made sense to simply edge into the subject with a determination of the extent of his familial bonds. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry if they have passed. Families are a topic of sensitivity, but I am only curious.”

“A man of reason exercising curiosity asks the question. You would. You would.” he snorted, stating the words with a sharpness rankling John.

“I ask because I wish to learn more of you. So easily you pierce my every defense and I speak, I share. You pass me grains while I offer a beach.” Exasperation raised his voice. Cornelius did not realize John's investment in the matter; to be fair, he neglected to tell him at any point. A failing, yes, one he'd admit. However, it remained true; John needed to know more about Cornelius Hickey, a former subordinate, current partner and friend in this adventure. “You wear your emotions so openly, yet you switch them like masks.”

“Are you finished? I believe you do not offer me much more in the way of conversation tonight. If you are to pass judgment on my face then perhaps I ought to retire for the evening.”

“To do what? Linger your mind on what was said? Perhaps you should because you will understand how I feel about this very subject.”

Though Cornelius kept his back turned, John saw his face clearly, sketched in his mind. Tongue planted firmly in his cheek, mouth parted, eyes shifted to the side. Brows snapped into place before relaxing completely, all processed in a blink.

“The moments where I see beyond and between are not enough for my liking. Yes, it is quite selfish and I ought to be admonished. I am sure you will in some manner. However, I see a dense forest when I long for a grove.” If Cornelius stared at the treeline searching for deer then John the workings of his friend. “I do not seek your weaknesses, only the foundation supporting the man I care for.”

A quick sound accompanied surely by another shift of his eyebrows. “Do you care, really? These probes continue against my desires.”

“Come now, I bow and bend to your whims. But, at times you reveal, you do. You asked once I wed if you would be abandoned. I can only conclude you'd assume such an outcome because.” He let the words thud between them, the meaning made implicit, regrettably clear.

At this Cornelius sighed and shook his head. Leaning heavily against John's knee, he drove the heels of his palms to his forehead and curled his hands into tight fists. His lips twisted into a grimace before settling into disdain. Never before did he draw suppressed anger; exasperation, gentle chiding, yes. But to have him tighten his body like a rope under tension, the skin of his knuckles stretched thin and white, never.

“You turn my own words into a weapon,” he replied, toneless and icy.

“It only proves my point. If I knew anything about you then I would not have roused your displeasure. I'm sorry, however, it stands.”

“Can you be satisfied with what I share?”

The sky flamed orange, the sun arching as it began its descent to the horizon. Around this time they'd scatter to fetch lanterns to light their evening. To stand now meant the thread would be stitched into place then armor-plated. Once again John alone sharing, presenting Cornelius with more and more pieces of him.

Neither man moved but still, they felt a shift towards a precipice.

“If you did, yes. Friendship is opening the self to another, secure in the knowledge he will not be judged. You've given me much, but please know I am here for you.” The fist squeezed then relaxed only for his short fingers to curl once more, looser.

“Won't be judged. I am a phantom.” A sudden burst of empty laughter, a sardonic sound displeasing John. He grew used to the small openings between Cornelius's moods, he able to slip through them. All he needed to do was extend a bit of humor or praise, a quick gesture enough to right him. Sarcasm firmly bolted the openings shut. Anything he'd say would deflect and clatter to the floor like a stone. He did not want to be reached, but John channeled his attention like a terrier nose deep in a hole primed to flush out his quarry.

“How could I befriend a man that never was?”

“I ask myself at times.” Cornelius turned with an acidic smile and draped his arms across John's knees. The sun hung over his head, it a flaming halo threatening to pull him beyond the horizon, leaving John alone and clinging to smoke. “Can one embrace another if they are shadowed?”

“Then cast some light!” He tossed his hands up, his patience worn thin. “I've tossed my life open to you and you strolled in with little resistance. I only wish for the same. We have each other and you never.” He sucked in an unsure breath and allowed a moment to find the right words, simplistic yet meaning all. “Here exists only you and God.”

He gazed down at his friend and the work of his jaw, the flicker of his gaze, up and away up and away. Perhaps he comprehended the truths John sputtered inelegantly. It did not make sense to see another who wandered and flowed like water live a life so hidden.

Someone had to have broken through the superficial and reached what he buried. John, for example, had Malcolm, he relying on him for much of his life, kept so close to his heart. The man bore the endless confessions and fears with ease. His dear brother, his letters bound and secured in blue ribbon nestled safely in a wooden box. No box for Cornelius, he so near and held tightly in John's orbit. Selfishly he wished to know if he held such a space in Cornelius's thoughts. If he built a foundation in his life as well or was merely a shell, a home easily disassembled and tossed aside.

Cornelius the wind, he the breeze, moving, moving.

“Is this when I provide you with a stirring tale of my youth? My origins to assuage your thoughts?”

“It will be a lie.”

“Oh, yes. But I will create the most alluring falsehood you've ever heard, so thrilling you'll find yourself surrounded by the scene. I'll let you interject, what with you holding such a stake in my past. Apparently, I am a warehouse for your investment your interest in my ledgers and not what I am.”

“Stop, it is not so impersonal, you know this.” His words were lost, Cornelius's eyes wide and unblinking.

A squeeze behind his ankle. "Then instead of me delivering it alone, we'll write something lovely. I grant you this power. Let us create me together.”

John shook his head and focused on the brilliant burst of colors, pink and purple, swathes of orange painted by a true master. His chest tightened, his heart dragged down by chains, ropes and chains. “How does it satisfy you?”

“I wish you'd ignore the past to reach my future, my very goal in life to have one. John, we keep pushing forward and you insist to haul backward.”

“Pasts inform our futures.” Frames the interior, supports the exterior. The fence, their stable complete waiting to hold another life.

A derisive, dismissive sound. “I choose to live for the present.”

“Do you fear yourself?”

He blinked. “No.” This he stated firmly.

Then he will, he will play Cornelius's game, this bit of parlor amusement. He will. “I shall tell you your story. My words are clumsy, my yarns poorly spun, but the words will be said with no hesitation. I wish they were true.” He received a shrug, so nonchalant. It hurt, why did it hurt. “You were born to a good man and an even better woman. Your father strove to provide for his family to the best of his abilities, it motivating his every decision.”

“Surely, you use your life as a reference.” Of course, he'd interject, this being beyond his control. And John let him; though this was John's moment, it was Cornelius's biography. “Was your father a reliable man?”

“I pass my moments to you, your story a blank beyond what pages you've provided. My father is a good, honest man and my mother an angel. My family is large, but you are the only son, the oldest of three children. Your sisters are trying, but you devoted time to watch them. It's one of the few responsibilities you took to heart.”

“Your mother's angelic? Is she an angel now, John?”

He felt a lurch in his chest, a cold hand gripping and tear at the muscles and bone. He will not lose his place, he will set his rules. “This is my tale.”

“Why sisters? Why not brothers?”

“Shall that suit you better? Very well. You are the oldest of three sons, you named after a relative you know nothing of, simply that he lived. The past clings to you though you scrub your skin.”

“I always hated it, but it is mine and I continue with it now.” Cornelius shifted and lowered his head to John's knees. So uncertain, the motion slow as if he'll be pushed away. Never, his weight comfortable like a warm quilt. “What name would you give me? I belong to you.”

“I write your past, but I will not change the very person you've shown.” He heard a gentle sigh and a light press of a hand behind his knee. This comfortable quilt holding him close, needing his words. “I worry you'll push away as readily as you expect to be removed from my life.”

Here they sat, John falling into the same trappings. Exposed, he nearly completely bare in front of Cornelius. His friend laid claim to everything, his land, his home. Don't, he longed to say, don't abandon me. “You regret it all, your somewhere warm is too mild, lacking palms. No natives only a neighbor who cannot.”

Cannot speak, cannot continue, he suddenly lost, he unable. He choked on the thought of an impending loss, the anticipation to be swept aside.

“Your anxieties lead you astray, John. I have no regrets, I live light.”

“Do not believe God alone sees the weights you strap to your chest. Your islands await.”

“Stop.”

“Grains of sand scattered across a beach.”

John swallowed to force down his rising bile. “The wind will take you.” He worried the inside of his mouth, teeth scissoring a strip of flesh. He focused on the twilight, the prospect of stars piercing the dark, the moon swollen, the owls' calls. “And I think of your ending, this for you alone. It is this, you surrounded by your family and their love and prayers. They recount their dearest memories until it is time. The angels shall call you to Heaven and you will reach up with a sigh. All is peace. No fear, no judgment, no regret. No pain, none.” 

A sudden recollection beat thick in his veins, he transported beyond and away. All too overwhelming and threatening to burst, but that story belonged to him. Not to Cornelius, not to anyone. If he did not leave he would surely collapse. He moved to stand, Cornelius releasing him, his face thankfully hidden. “When you are ready to share, I will be here. I promise I will not leave your side until you finish. Specter or not, I value our friendship. But I will not remain here now, not until you understand.”

*

The faint scrape of his bedroom door was sharp enough to jar him from an uneasy sleep. A lantern burned low and the figure holding it shuffled uncertain, flames casting light against a bare torso.

“I couldn't.” His voice sounded weak, as tired as John felt. He turned to leave, but John made a sound, surely incoherent as he pulled the cotton from his mind. It was enough to stop Cornelius from bounding home like a rabbit. He unglued his tongue and gestured him to come closer.

“Stay. You're here for a reason.”

“Couldn't sleep. I wandered until my legs carried me here.” He laughed, almost reprimanding himself for coming over. “It's like magnetic north, eh? The compasses spun up there like a top.” They did, the needles drove a whirl. “Searching for direction, but we plowed through, always moving forward. Do you see?”

John pulled himself up against the headboard and cast the blankets off. If he remained comfortable he'd surely fall asleep; he swore Cornelius his attention and he never broke his word.

“I didn't write your story, John. The truth of how it would be if it all were different. In another place, you'd walk by me. I surrounded by brick and in the maw of the city, the building its teeth. And you'd stroll past and enter one of those establishments where I could never go. I hear you speak of charts and discoveries before men of equal character. The life you lead so complete with a wife and children. She is lovely and charitable, devoting time to save miscreants like me.”

Though he provided John with a very desired and beloved family, his world was claustrophobic and bleak; a hell he wished to never experience. Such a foul flavor lingered unctuously in his mouth, one he rejected with disgust. For Cornelius to be abandoned, stepped over. What world would sweep him into the shadows, a man so dynamic, so mutable who offered much? Tend to him, let him reach for the sunlight, burn the shadows away; do not trample him underfoot.

“You are a moral man, John. A good Christian virtue, charity.”

“A cornerstone, yes, but it holds no application here. We don't live there, we are here. Our home is among the birds and grass, with not a rat to be seen. There is no sweat of desperation, but of growth and progress.” He longed to reach out and provide a hand of comfort, to drag his palm against his hair, follow the curve of his skull. To help him understand he would never cast him aside, his earlier actions so rude, he standing and leaving him behind to mull these thoughts over. But he did and here he remained, his hands by his side. “I am not here out of tolerance, but because I care for you. As does God. He sees you, Cornelius."

The lantern swung hypnotic patterns in the dark as he paced. “He doesn't know me. I've got too many names. I slipped into coats and buttoned them to my throat until I choked. You don't know, you can't comprehend it. You ever saw a girl get her hand chewed up by a machine?”

He felt ill. “No.”

“They like 'em little, the hands, so they can get into the metal beast. She slipped and the teeth flashed and ground the meat to paste and the bone to flour.” The lantern ended its bob. “Sometimes I feel the thread dust tickle my lungs. Maybe you wore something I made.”

“Cornelius.” John's heart stuck through with needles. He imagined a ginger-haired child, barefoot and working surrounded by metal. He should be playing in the grass, dancing in the rain. “Your family?”

“Cholera. I spared, God's mercy to leave me turned out. You learned your numbers and the sea and I,” it came in a rush, the dam burst, he gesturing. “I _learned_ to be fast, to be nimble, dodge and flee. Flash a grin, that gets you far. Got me here. With you,” his voice shook, low. John felt the intensity of his gaze, it the sun through a magnifying glass.

“I survived, John.” He paused, the light halting its movement, the darkness unable to hide the bend of his body until he straightened with assurance. “I'm done surviving and scrabbling to exist. I want to live. Whoever I am, I am going to live.” He thumped the lantern on the dresser for emphasis, tilting back into the shadows.

Stretching his limbs from their fatigue, John moved to the light. With his eyes barely adjusted he caught only the edges of his features. The flame illuminated his jaw, his thin collarbone, the lean pull of muscle under his skin. Skipped and danced along his tired features. He looked delicate, suddenly the little boy repairing machines. Somehow, somehow he found the hope and the drive to escape, his dearest friend.

“You live. Cornelius, you exited an empty existence and found meaning. Through your determination and God's guidance, you entered the service. You live.”

He stepped forward and let his hand rest between his neck and the bird-delicate strip of bone. Grazed his thumb against the hollow of his throat, the apple moving as he swallowed. “Here is where your coat's button presses. It chokes and steals your breath.” Gently he spiraled his finger where the fastener held, his lungs skipping air in little puffs. His heart beat wildly, not as violently as Cornelius's, his a manic thrum. “However you see yourself, I grant you permission to undo it and release your pain into the past. We live now. We live.”

He returned his hands close, self-conscious at his emotive statement, not pragmatic advice but fanciful, more attune to Cornelius's reasoning. Dragons formed from clouds, grass seeds in his hair, antlers, and feathers. Now a hidden coat.

“Do you wear layers, John?”

“Yes.” Without hesitation, his sewn into his skin, holding him upright. 

“Here?” The sudden press of Cornelius's palm to his chest, his breastbone. His skin rippled under his nightshirt, warmth slipping like rain flowed from his core. Dizziness, a faint tremble threatened to overtake him, thanks to the emotions of the evening and a lack of sleep. It drew his shoulders tight, forced his focused on the flames shifting patterns, melting their silhouettes into a single shadow.

"I see." The hand disappeared. “I've stolen your sleep. I'll leave you.”

“No.” The words spilled like a sharp exclamation which fueled his sudden embarrassment. “If you need to share again I rather you didn't have to trudge through the dark convincing yourself to turn back the entire way. There is room enough.”

He caught the head shake and felt the quick huff of breath, a low sound; his humor returned. “I'm certain there is.” He picked his way to the bed and crawled in, head on the spare pillow. The lonely mass of feathers often ended its night draped dangerously over the edge or heaped on the floor. Finally, it lived for its intended use. A sudden thought overtook him. Maybe it'd be appropriate to sleep on the couch, he only steps away if Cornelius needed him.

“John?” His name an exhausted whisper.

“I'm here.” He lowered the lamp and slipped into bed.

*

**Coda**  
ONE

Cornelius stirred often, limbs twitching. Even during sleep, he seemed to fight against the boundaries of his skin. To share surely lightened his soul, but his body still held fast. What else could he do for him but be there? The beast may try to clamp its jaws around his arm and rend him apart, but John would chase it from his dreams tonight.

He brought his index finger behind his ear between the lobe and the sharp hinge. Touched only to release the tension, the faintest bit of pressure to reassure him he was not alone. His skin was hot, a furnace with boundless energy building at rest, thoughts stoking heat. John let his hand follow his throat to his collarbone, he all lines, but he found faint curves of bone and muscles. Lightly, lightly to care for him, to urge him to rest, his palm held against his chest. Lightly, lightly. He'd hold him, embrace him as his brother, but he'd struggle and fly forth, he his bird always longing to be free.

And like that Cornelius relaxed, his body releasing and sinking further into his pillow.

And only then did John fall asleep.

TWO

He didn't sleep.

He stirred, his limbs twitching. The sensation of falling without a padded landing, only the rocks and the stone below. Remembered a body smashed to pieces upon the ground, fallen from a height. The matter simply a cooked egg; whites and grey and red became ribbons seeking cracks between the pavers. Between his fingers. The final splash of a man who will become one of many in the water, bloated.

Resurrect-dead into this form.

He held no lightness. For a moment, for a moment before the reminders, before, beforebeforebefore he felt content. Not now, even with his face buried into a pillow, the feathers soft and the bedding clean. Imagine him on comfortable sheets, on a decent mattress in a room without the scent of piss leaching from the floor. Still, he could not rest. A body beside him, warm and rooted. His body, _his_ body. Do bodies matter, do names matter, do pasts matter what matters is matter be matter-

to matter.

To escape, to unburden himself of this life and to find another, to wear a name like a coat _the brief release of fabric pooling to his feet_ , to find himself somewhere else hummed in his very being. Buzzed like static, curled around his gut and tightened. Can't fight instinct: birds do not resist flight.

A faint _shhhh_ , a press behind his ear. A shift from a sudden jolt into a hesitant sweep of warmth. The darkness a cover, the shadows he slipped in and through and was birthed from hid their eyes, but not their outlines. The hum of breath. The stroke of a finger becoming fingers becoming a hand, them and it following his throat to rest on his collarbone.

Tell, say it, speak it. Show, show.

Descended to his chest.

His heart's bounce had to be felt, blood a mad rush under pressure. The tension in his body lifted and released, it a sigh, it his soul. The hand remained. It remained.

He too shall remain.

In the moments before the body hit, did it feel free?

He denied the stones the stop and rose further into the sensation of the wind and the rustle of leaves, the breath, his theirs _ourour_ the thumb unlocked his worries.

And only then did Cornelius sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Hickey's story of the girl from dottore_polidori's incredible "The Man That Never Was". My words cannot compare so do read if you haven't already. 
> 
> A bit of a heavier chapter, but a necessary step.


	9. A Misadventure in Animal Husbandry - or - John Irving Retreats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a good idea is ill-conceived and John's bed is finally graced by a female.

He heard the faintest scratch against wood, then an echoed tap. He drew the blankets over his head to steal a few moments more, but the sounds grew louder and increased in number. 

And then the clucking began. 

John jolted up and let out a horrified bark of anger. No other explanation but one, the most obvious. “Cornelius!” He didn’t care a whit if the man could not hear him. He needed to yell. 

The near dozen chickens in his bedroom did not appreciate his sudden explosion of rage, their strutting and scraping becoming panicked. “Dear God,” he muttered as one flapped up onto the edge of his bed. Observed him with dull, flat eyes. Yellow and accusatory, as if it knew John’s intention to poach her offspring and peel the meat from her little breast. “Leave me be, chicken.” He raised his hands up, but the hen advanced slightly, her nails so sharp, curved, her beak pointed and his flesh soft. 

Intimidated, he watched his bedroom fill with more fat stubby bodies. How in the world did they escape from the coop? It was secured, bolted and locked, all demonstrative of the amount of care Cornelius paid to his flock. And here they walked as if they belonged, working their beaks into his floor. Defecating. _Excreting_ in his house. 

“Cornelius!” He shouted once more, tossing his pillow at the approaching bird and dashed his way through the soon-to-be-dead and eaten poultry, their carcasses reduced to stock, plucked down soft stuffing for his pillows; unfertilized young boiled or coddled and served with toast and bacon, delicious pig, the fat squeaking between his teeth. He’d feast with relish, a near animalistic pleasure, sucking his fingers. They filled his home, his neat and well-maintained home, clucking and bucking their way across the floor, the couch, his writing desk. Any other man would freeze with panic. Not John Irving. He made a fist and sucked back a string of curses which would level the whole of Victoria's kingdom.

John did not care he was in his nightclothes and barefoot as he stomped through his wide open front door. “Cornelius!”. The grass wet with dew steamed to the sky under the morning light. A beautiful sight any other day reduced to a nightmare while he kicked his way through another congregation of chickens. They fluttered their wings in displeasure and began a slow, obviously coordinated advance. Somewhere, in the distance, John heard thundering hoofbeats, a pale hen leading the charge. 

“'And Hell followed with him,'” he gasped and broke out into a sprint, feet sliding on the damp grass. The animals followed with a seemingly one-track mindset: to injure. Blessed with longer strides and holding dominion over animals, he outran them, convincing them to follow their natural their place and leave him. Those disturbing feet will not dig into him, not now or ever. He caught his breath and resumed his trudging. 

“Cornelius!” He rounded the corner and there he knelt before the coop, back turned with a hammer in hand. He raised a finger as if he were in a position to silence John, to be granted a chance to work in serenity and patience as he drove in another nail. 

John raised his face to Heaven and asked the Lord to guide him, to push the anger from his heart and set a positive example for a man who seemingly meant well. He brought his hands to the side of his face and inhaled the sweet morning air. The crushed grass under his soles tickled pleasantly; from the forest thudded woodpeckers to a speedy rhythm in contrast to Cornelius’s methodical blows. Such sublime avians they were, good and great. Furthermore, they did not use his home to lay their droppings. The smallest of miracles on this morning.

“Cornelius,” John stated, his voice low and eerily calm, filled with God’s Grace. 

“I had to make a repair, several of the boards not flush enough for my liking. Remember the wheels I found under my porch?” He pointed to a large cart to the side, a slatted box on wheels then resumed his tapping. “Been tinkering around with this for a bit. This I can drag around so they can peck and scratch the grasses without wandering around.” Cornelius sounded so proud, his idea of making a little mobile coop rather clever. However, his industrious mind did not magically clear the animals from his home, nor clean it of their feathers and excrements. “Borrowed your hammer to do so. I’ll collect them shortly,” and he pounded the final nail in. 

Oh, did he ever. “Shortly?” John hissed, his legs propelling him forth. He reached under his armpits and hauled him up, Cornelius squirming like a cat. “Have you seen where they ended up?”

“Have I-you’ve feathers in your hair, John.” Cornelius paused, putting together the sight of John undressed with chicken molt in his hair, a faint bit of amusement crossing his features. The shine of laughter filled his eyes. A sudden desire to rattle off _rogue_ and _villain_ overwhelmed, but his mouth was dry. Instead, he shook him, the simplest representation of his utter annoyance at the situation he fabricated in the name of production. 

“They marched into my bedroom, Cornelius. I stared one down, the hen cornering me in my very bed. My sanctuary,” he emphasized with a quick poke in the chest. “I was threatened and chased!” The utter absurdity of the statement smacked him swiftly in the face. With a pause, he brought his knuckles to his mouth and stared beyond. What in the world happened to his life to lead to this odd turn? Ah, he remembered, the suggestion he made to his friend to rear livestock. He failed at flora, what a shame he was so talented with fauna. And so his hens pushed John from his home. He tossed his pillow at poultry and dashed out, left them to pillage like a conquering army. A sudden bubble of laughter erupted.

He’d be next, Cornelius Hickey, their master useless against their relentless violence. The flapping, pecking, scratching. He began to cough slightly and attempted to draw in a breath, it only cut off by another chuckle. He had tears in his eyes. There’d be no poems for Hickey, no odes to Irving, only the conquering hens and their taste for flesh. 

“It’s wise to have retreated, quite brave actually. You ought to choose your fights, especially when alone and with me distracted,” Cornelius soothed, features simultaneously holding concern and amusement. He brought his hand to the back of John’s neck and rubbed the knot of bone, a gentle massage which melted his remaining irritation to nothing. “I’ve seen their flapping and how they set upon one another.”

They needed to move and gather the birds and wring one for dinner. Clean his home and set it right then begin the rest of his day. But the fingers rubbing through his hair, the wrist against his jaw drew his attention away from these needs. Deliberately Cornelius brushed along and down to his chest, his fingers tucking between his nightshirt and his skin. His thumb held against the button on his throat. The humor gone and replaced by an intensity he never seen in Cornelius’s eyes, John became greatly aware of the press of flesh to his, how Cornelius had to feel the speeding rush of his heart. 

The hand lingered for a moment as did they, the birds chuckling at their situation. 

Neither man laughed. 

*

The animals looked strangely content, roosting in his home. They were in various stages of relaxation, several gathered around the fireplace, cackling in conversation. Such an utter mockery of people! He restrained himself, the desire to sharply kick one into cold coals a bit of revenge which would provide little relief. Molt scattered across every surface along with white and black messes. The sole exception, by God’s Grace and a mother’s love, his precious Bible, untouched, protected. This he placed in a drawer where it would remain safe unless the creatures gained intelligence in addition to their spirited vengeance. 

“Hen,” he hissed, the bird in question resting her plump body on his pillow, her little throat bobbing with noises. The rest surrounded the bed, she the queen of the room, his once fine sheets now hers. He dressed around them as they shifted like water around his ankles, paying no mind to him. They deemed him the irritant, a fly buzzing and landing only to be shooed. The hen remained on the bed, eyeing him with a sense of triumph as he shut the door behind him. 

Snatching the broom from the corner he swept a whirlwind of feathers and birds towards Cornelius and his waiting cart. With a chicken under each arm, he looked sheepish, a far departure from his usual confidence. “I’ve gone ahead and returned the ones wandering outside. You may want to give them a stern lecture, John, a willing audience secured.” 

“This entire situation does not need another layer of nonsense. Rather than react in anger, I must embrace and hold God’s forgiveness in my heart.” With a light whap, he helped a chicken out the door, it sounding indignant before raising its bottom. He began to object, but fell silent; another squirt to join the rest. 

“Our combined efforts will have your home returned to its original order. I ensure you, I will work above and beyond your current expectations.” He stood with level shoulders, the very picture of earnestness, leaving John with a surge of pride. “Industry, John.” 

“Industry, Cornelius,” he replied. John cleared his throat and paused his cleaning. He picked his way down the porch stairs, poking a resting bird out of the way. Retaliation mostly out of his heart, save for the preening threat on his pillow, he held only one goal. “I wanted to apologize to you. To direct my rage in your direction, it was not proper. You meant well and I must compliment you on your cart.” 

“No need, though I will say you looked quite the sight. I’ve seen much in my life, but a man who prides himself on tidiness emerging from the morning mist surrounded by a flurry of feathers?” Lips held in a line, he shook his head slowly. “A more devastating, humanizing image has yet to be seen by man.”

“Hence why I began to laugh. It’s still rather amusing, the thought of the marching chickens, encroaching upon us. Although I think of their leavings and my amusement scatters.” He tilted his hand to the side in a dismissive gesture. Cornelius busied himself, shoving birds into the cart when they wandered too close. “Now you have some of them in your hair. No, let me.” 

He brought Cornelius’s hand down and picked the little bits of light molt. Not stately, he better suited for hawk and eagle feathers; his antler, the other half of his shed waiting to be found. So lonely, it left on the mantle waiting for its mate, but the previous owners hid from his friend's sight. Here, his fingers stroked to the crown of his head, here was where they ought to be, not white puffs of down. 

A weight against his waist, Cornelius’s hand bringing him back to the moment. “Your grooming is futile on account of us still needing to tackle your home. Unless you abandon it to the chickens.”

John mirrored the cheerful smile. “Then where will you wander to, hm? Come. I’ll attend to your hair again once we’re finished.” 

They paused, John reaching for a stirring speech before they entered the fray. Anything to motivate them for the daunting task at hand. Instead, he chose to pat Cornelius's shoulder and nod. With a bracing breath, he armed himself with his broom, Cornelius a bucket and brush and they set inside ready to fix the house to its proper form. 

*

"Well?" Cupping his chin Cornelius gauged his reaction attempting to discreetly manage his own. Still, he did not rest his face as placid as he imagined.

Neither did John, though he tried, the meal a bounty before them. The hen's body rested neatly in the roasting pan, she trussed and prepared by Cornelius. Her breast plump and juicy, the skin browned from his careful attention. Around her a circle of potatoes and carrots, well-buttered and basted. John's contribution was modest in comparison, broccoli boiled and dressed with beaten oil and vinegar. Cornelius insisted he sit as he dispatched the bird with a snap and a jaunty whistle. 

"I cannot thank you enough. I must warn you ahead of time, I may forgo the utensils." 

"Do as you will, John. I will brandish my knife." He tapped the bone handle. "Then abandon it while we tear her carcass apart." The words carried a certain unsettling delight, an exaggeration of John's statement. Gingerly he nudged his knife and fork away from his plate, Cornelius resting his on the pan.

First, the most important stage of their meal. “I will lead us in Grace.” He took a brief moment to privately thank the Lord for leading both he and Cornelius to this path, His love evident in the land they worked and their deep regard for one another. He accepted Cornelius’s hand and wove their fingers together to bless their meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept hearing the words "I will have my revenge!" as I was writing the latter half of this chapter. To be honest, while you and I see ordinary chickens, John was surely picturing that giant Brahma chicken.
> 
> I cannot believe this sucker this long...it's nearly a novella and I don't know how any of this happened.


	10. Stories Are Told - or - John Irving Hears the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lock is broken, bath salts spread, and John counts the time.

“Tell me again.” Cornelius flipped his page, deeply involved with whatever took him captive. Another Dickens for sure, he absorbing them like a plant water. “Please, tell me again,” John repeated. He worried a long blade of grass and manipulated its placement between his thumbs until suitable. A soft puff of breath flew into a pitched whistle, a call for attention. 

“Be specific. I speak so very much.” 

John shifted closer, and offered the grass, his thumbs held close to his friend’s lips. Hands steadied his wrists and he spread his other fingers out like wings. Felt the hot pass then the sound, it a reply. “How you snuck into the theater.”

Cornelius shut his reading. “Surely you’ve memorized it. I do not want to become like Fitzjames with his tedious meanderings.” 

“They weren’t as you describe the first four times. Though I am certain even he is relieved he has a new audience every night.” He quirked his lips at the dashing well-decorated Fitzjames wandering across the Continent sharing his long-winded stories in European lecture halls. “I’ve read he’s directing a new tableau. A capital presentation it’ll be, I’m certain.”

A sharp, amused snort signaled agreement. “He’s quite suited to the world of costumes and constructs. Fancies, not unlike yourself with the need to hear this simple tale.”

“What is simple to you captures the imagination. I could never be so bold.” 

“A man who stared down a feathery demise?” John hardened his face and feigned annoyance at the teasing. Wiry arms snapped around his shoulder in solidarity, their faces close enough for John to see the faint blonde and near transparent hairs along the curve of Cornelius’s cheek. Smell the cigarettes and the macassar oil he combed into the ends of his hair, it tinged with nutmeg and cinnamon, mosses. His nose an angle, formed not from clay but stone, chipped and carved with edges defined. Nature could not wear him down, God willing. Let it try; John would chisel the sharpness back into his features.

He allowed himself a moment to relax while the arms rocked him with a lazy sway. John became grass in the breeze, the dance of dandelions rising higher. “You test me greatly. But please, Cornelius.” 

“Let me gather my thoughts and relieve myself of this weight.” With a squeeze, he released him and shut his eyes in thought. John grew pleased with how open his friend became since he shed and hung up the coat. The tales were brief and chosen with care, designed to paint a smile on John’s face and shift Cornelius into those moments of brief childhood joy. Nothing more about the factory or the street. Maybe he slew the metal beast for good, sunlight licking warm his good memories. 

John settled himself across the grass, head on his folded hands. Better to see his friend and the clouds as they floated above, the laziest little puffs cast across the sky. Cornelius pulled a plum from his little satchel and his knife. As if through magic it fell apart into tiny slivers, perfectly pink and white fleshed slips. “I took to the alley under the cover of darkness and darted between the shadows. Better to ignore the scurrying, it fast and slow, all those critters of different sizes threatening to overtake you like a wave. Keep the feet sure and you won’t trip, John. Even in the dark, you won’t fall.” 

He looked pensive and fell into a worrying silence. John feared those creatures would unsteady his steps to pull him into the darkness. An anchor was needed and John provided, it a hand on to the knee. “Open,” Cornelius said, the statement leaving him confused until the plum hovered above. It drew across his mouth and John did, licked the juices as he took it between his teeth. Sweet like flowers, the skin sour, slightly under-ripe, the flesh snapping as he chewed. He was impatient to eat it; a few days would have turned it to sugar. “Another?”

“Only if you keep speaking.” And John reached for the slice, but why bother when it pressed to his lips, slid into his mouth. No, he was wrong, the plum perfect, the juice sticky. A grin brightened Cornelius’s features, his smile like liquid as he sucked his fruit-wet fingers.

“Behind the hall was an entrance, long forgotten and unnoticed to the workers who lived to attend and clean and maintain. Not known to the men in their stiff collars, their bodies starched and pressed as their clothing. Not known to the women in their parrot bright dresses and trimmings. Every flounce and tuck and puffing far more suitable for a dessert than the body. And so I-I. I worked the lock.” 

John drew along his upper lip with his tongue, certain Cornelius witnessed the motion as he stuttered his words. Satisfaction flowed into his body, curled like smoke from a cigarette. “Your actions were done long before your days of Naval Service. Survival and joys were dependant on actions alone, even sneaking into a theater.” This he included, creating a bit of a buffer between the Cornelius of old and the man of character before him. The Lord forgave. He broke another thick blade of grass and held it between his teeth, bursting chlorophyll. He shut his eyes.

“Of course. I am no engine driven with a singular purpose, mindless and droning. Thriving required I took pleasures as I could. To live as I do now having been redeemed before you cleanses my soul, John.” A ghostlike sweep against his hairline, an act of thanks, a blessing which sank him deeper into the tale. “Through the door, I popped. To the right, stairs. Where did it lead, to what heights, what mysteries would I see?”

Breathlessly, he watched Cornelius work the rim lock, his tool clicking before the latch sounded. They pushed into the entrance, John pinning himself against the door. With a conspiratorial nod, Cornelius grasped John’s hand and urged him to follow. Reckless to the prospect of being caught, they dashed up the stairs, the treads and risers uneven, he tripping as he misjudged heights. The hand kept him from tumbling backward into a void, leaving his body dashed at the bottom. His feet thudded, the wood groaning under his heavy boots, whereas Cornelius being so nimble barely made a sound. Being cat-like, he’d always land proper. As long as he followed, John would as well. 

“My vision adjusted enough to see a long corridor, it with an end. But, would it be a sudden stop, a bricked wall? Or would it lead to the entrance of another world, lit with candles tossing gold underfoot?”

Here John found his steps, rolling around the edges of his boots, taking care to avoid the knotty boards. He returned the squeeze of Cornelius’s hand, a press of pride complimenting him on his quick learning. John always held a mind for education; to be thrown into a practicum and succeed quickly further lightened his movements. 

“The people bustled from somewhere beyond,” John noted around his blade of grass. The women-

“Ladies chattered like monkeys and the men’s words carried over them. I heard a sudden pull of strings and then voices hushed.” Cornelius and John brought their fingers to their lips and tipped tipped tipped until they reached a rickety ladder. The rungs rattled as they climbed, John reaching for another, finding only air, bearings both lost and found. He hesitated until warmth caught his wrist and pulled him to somewhere solid. 

“The music felt like a bubble of air pushing as I shimmed along the catwalk, holding flat like a sole. Dared only to go as far as the shadows painted. Below, the orchestra swelled. It became my entire world while the musicians drew their bows and moved air through their instruments.”

“Playing only for you,” John sighed. For them when he wiggled beside Cornelius, peeking out between the railings. The players focused on the notes, the conductor the time, and he and Cornelius on the stirring symphony.

“Felt like it. All I knew was it sounded pretty, not like the fiddles you hear at the Fairs or the fore-bitters. It made me think there was another place for me.” Cornelius nudged John and the orchestra swelled. Their shoulders knocked then held steady, fingers tapping to the strains of the music; so idyllic and happy. 

The slightest pulse of air on his face before the blade of grass was plucked from his mouth. Cornelius hovered above him, it between his lips like a cigarette. The other end was crushed green and shiny with saliva where he worked it. The smile they shared felt secret.

In the world they created the curtain parted, John standing on stage, whistling a faraway song to his audience. Simple, halting, for Cornelius alone. 

*

“The sea was always warm, delightfully so. The sky, blue, it a mirror.” John yawned and swept his hand through the bath water. The words unchanging, but still Cornelius asked and John obeyed. Feet propped over the side, a small jar of salts packed with pine needles within reach, flannel bobbing over his lap; this was more a paradise than the expanse of Malta. All he needed was an attendant to dash to-and-fro, providing him with wines and fruits, plums. He suddenly a patron of a Turkish bath or a Roman spring. Such a thought made him chuckle.

“What?”

“I imagined calling for a steward to present me with a tray laden with fruits and sweets. I’m reduced to a glutton, reveling in my sloth.” 

“You’ve worked enough for a lifetime and achieved more than that.” Cornelius made a pensive sound. “I’ll fetch you apples. Take the first bite and then chuck the rest out the window for the animals.” 

“Such waste.”

“The first bite the sweetest,” came the reply, it a low buzz humming along and below the fruit of John’s throat. He felt a sudden throb of heat, a rush and a push; a stillness, he aware of how quiet the small bathing space was, how tight it felt with two bodies and one (1) tin and copper plunge tub - oversized occupying the same area. Cornelius slipped the moment back into comfort. “The sky, blue,” he prompted. 

“The sky, blue. It smelled like salt, our lungs carrying the ocean wherever we went.” The same, the same, the story unchanging and set in stone. He'd be asked about the food and it’ll be a recitation. The fish fresh, the vegetables still carried the dirt, figs burst with the seeds crunching between his teeth, honey drawn directly from the comb. But the reaction was as if were new each time. 

With a click of the jar, Cornelius popped into view. A handful of salt scattered across John’s thigh, the pine needles floating as the mound dissolved. The strong scent of oils released, overwhelming, but not at all unpleasant. Cornelius ought to pack more away for the winter, something fresh to bring inside when the world turned white. 

“Tell me, did you bathe? In the warm sea.” The question came quiet and probing. His head ducked, face hidden by his hair. “Did you?”

This a new inquiry, a surprise. “A far more pleasurable experience than in the Arctic.” He brushed a pine needed from his belly and watched it hover over his hip. “We set a sail with a shot in the center to keep us all together. Our layers stripped, we leaped from the ship, men of all ranks climbing. I jumped from the fore yardarm, Malcolm chiding me to take care, take care.” His dear friend worried from his place in the water, but John set his mind to a decision and followed it. “I was brave.”

He cut through the blue, churning white while his lungs begged to draw in air. Kicked up and through the many legs and arms to break the surface, the men laughing and calling to another. They even acknowledged John, praised him for his climbing and dive. For once, he felt as if he were accepted in the company of men, not judging his choices or devotion, his circle widening beyond Malcolm. 

“Incredibly, John. I could never.” Of course, he could; he knew no one with more courage. 

“Women,” John began and immediately regretted it, the memory quite striking. A slick grin raised brows, and he found the confidence to continue. “I never told you out of a sense of propriety, but women watched us. We were shameless and preening as they took us in view, exposing ourselves on the surface.” 

“You as well? How lewd.” 

It was, the action crude and very much unlike himself. Yet, to be focused upon, for him to be deemed pleasing. The moment left him conflicted, ashamed, his vanity and lust untempered at that moment. It was an odd place to be, Malta. They lived and milled about with the civilians, the women perched along the balconies, married and available, young and old, pointing and leaning to see. Those very women who observed their bodies worked the stalls, handed over their fruit and honey while remembering the lines of their body. “You would be in paradise, surely in demand.”

“My imagination runs. I wish we could be transported there for the day and return in time for the evening.” Cornelius sighed heavily then buried his nose in the jar. “I am content here, but could you imagine? Or us on a beach.” 

The emphasis on him being content, done for John’s benefit. “As long as we sprout wings and fly home. What would we do?” John sank down a bit, the water lapping his shoulders before covering everything but his face. 

“This.” The voice was distant with his ears below the surface. The tub rang and Cornelius loomed over him, hand past the waterline. His lips spread into a smile, seemingly melting before John’s eyes. “Nothing could compare to my little house here, John. But, imagine. We can farm fruit from the trees and sell them to traders and sailors. Us on a boat carved from a log.” 

“Your mind whips such tales. What of the natives?”

“We live beside them, all of us one happy family. I knit nets with them and we pull fish from the ocean.” He pinched John’s toe with a wink.

“No sense of privacy.” John frowned in half-hearted protest, feet remaining in place. 

“And smoke them over fires while singing the songs of birds.” His hands swayed through the air, swooping in a dance, bright eyes sparking to fuel those fires. The heat of the flames licked John’s chest. 

“Have you ever seen those tropical birds? God blessed them with such brightness. Some even speak and whistle.” He knew of a captain whose bird recited the beginning of Psalm 23, chattering the words all hours of the night. “You’d have a cloak of their feathers and a crown of shells. Pearls around your throat.” He’d pluck them from oysters, wrap them with gold thread. Yards of them would catch the sun, Cornelius strewn with stars and the blues and greens illuminating the Arctic skies. The sun jealous, the moon envious. “You’re a king.”

“We’ll bathe under a waterfall and smell like blossoms then toast ourselves cozy dry in hammocks stretched between great trees.” Fingers dragged lazily near John’s waist, motions stirring little waves. A pleasant lap which made him miss the ocean, the sea, endless, a mirror to the sky. It held his memories, his entire life, his every inhale and exhale. Yet, the land rooted it together. “When we swim creatures nip at our feet. Water people urge us to play and we do, John. Us gliding happily while they tickle us with our tails. And I will build you a church where you can minister to the birds and the fishes and the crabs.”

“And to you.” A mercurial slip wrapped around his hips and tugged him fully to the beach. His little hut, roofed, but open to the ocean. He smelled the heady flora as toes digging little trenches in the sand. The waves crashed and rolled, skimming white foam before returning, a steady rhythm which echoed through his trunk. Before him was his little congregation. The birds, shelled creatures, fish, and whales attentive to his words, to God’s blessings. Cornelius kneeling, ready to absorb his knowledge. “Would you find it pleasing?”

“Of course,” the genuflecting figure said, crowned and cloaked in brilliant colors. His hand found John’s forearm. “A king needs a guiding hand.” 

“We can go if it’ll make you happy.” The words a tumble. Why, why say such a statement when he loved the world around them. He scolded his friend before, told him to leave the temperate climate and seek his happiness, but he remained. Even Cornelius seemed taken aback, tightening his grip as if to keep him at the moment. John’ll float away with the thoughts, into Cornelius’s fantasy. Up and up until he a speck in the sky, their home so far away. 

“I have a map and it’s enough for me. After all, we mended a fence and our stable awaits. Trust me, I have everything I need.” He parted his lips with a smack. “You ought to wash your hair before you grow cold. Or, would you enjoy an attendant? For once, right now.” 

John knew to say no, to thank him for the curious offer and allow him to take his leave. But he felt bold, his toes still buried in the sand, ears turning the ripple of leaves beyond the open window into a rush of palms. “You provided me with a church on your beach,” as if that alone could explain handing over the soap. Or excuse the violent pounding behind his ribs.

His head was manipulated into position with trembling fingers. Suds slipped onto his scalp, massaged with a firming touch. Each motion loosened his body, relaxing him further, something he thought to be impossible. Cornelius caught errant drips before then slid down his face, his neck, his collarbone. Little trails leading nowhere, his body enjoying the attention. John tilted his head back, the tiny circles following the curve of his skull, root to tip. 

God forgive him, but perhaps the Romans were correct in this aspect of their hedonism. Ship captains had their stewards, the Greeks a cupbearer dedicated to the needs of his master. A broken sigh dragged past his lips, the water cool against the heat of his skin. The clean scent of the soap punctured through the sharp pine needles. 

The needles spun a whirl in the Arctic, the stars holding tight around the pole. He stood outside and watched them, wrapped warm and tight into another shapeless, faceless bundle. The snow-encrusted men pushed white from the deck and chipped ice from the masts. Maybe Cornelius was one them, he lost in the darkness, seeking the points spiraling above. 

How they whirled. 

The silence, the ripple of water, the gentle rasp along his scalp transformed deep relaxation into sudden discomfort. “I did this for-for Archie and David.”

“Mates?” The fingers stilled then tightened, a small tug which brought his head further over the lip of the tub. Exposed his throat. He licked a bead of water from the curve of his mustache, Cornelius a hawk following his movement, intent on the answer. 

“My younger brothers.” The hands resumed. “David always obeyed, but Archie. Have you ever chased a naked four-year-old down a street? Despite their short legs, they are nearly impossible to catch.” He was forced to haul his wet, squirming, and filthier brother over his shoulder and into the washtub. “I had to time his baths to a song we sang. A second too long and he’d be out like a cannon shot until father threatened him with a spanking.” 

“How lucky I needn’t chase you. But if you’d prefer, we can.” John flushed under the intensity of his gaze, those blue eyes. If he leaped, if John jumped from the fore part of the ship he’d never surface. Unwilling to leave, he'd drown; the water people would win. No one would know, no authority but John and Cornelius. “We can even sing a song.” He pursed his lips and whistled a tune, a staccato birdsong. 

“I wouldn’t run,” his reply a sudden exhale, unexpected. His thoughts were muddled. 

“Then you are saved my discipline.” A pull across his skin which fluttered when Cornelius winked. “Upon intense scrutiny of your hair, I can say with certainty you do not need another trim. Anyway, you are handsome no matter your length.” 

There it was again, a kick in his belly this time, not unlike the quicksilver. It a quiet _oh_ which rolled through his every cell, his structures. 

“Lean,” Cornelius ordered and John sat up, tipping his head forward. It’d be simpler to duck under, but who was he to deny this, his friend’s attention, the water he poured over his hair. No match for their waterfall, but it was close, it was close. This curled deep within, drawing a pulse which sounded thick in his throat, his chest, his hips. No fruit, no sweetmeats, no syruped citron presented on a tray, only the rub of fingers working the last of the suds from his scalp. All finished, he reclined. John splayed apart his ankles over the sides, content, the flannel floating by his waist. Cornelius's face pinked high against his cheekbones.

He craved something sparkling and sweet against his tongue. A syllabub, lemon fresh and frothy on the spoon, the metal warming under his licks. Wine hiding underneath the white cloud, waiting to be swallowed. Or a blancmange surrounded by plump berries, reds and pinks and purples, juice staining their lips. No, best to tilt his chin and open up to an offered honeycomb, gold drizzled thick into his mouth.

Sugar would melt and flow down his throat. 

*

They sat on the sofa, the night long started, the hour’s chiming short. With nothing left to tell, conversations fell into monosyllabic responses before stretching into silence. It was a signal for John to take his leave. But the rain splattered against the roof, lightning snapped, and he lacked the desire to be soaked before he retired. Exhaustion dulled him, it the type of weariness which seemed to deny him the desire to sleep. To do anything but remain displeased.

“Hear the rain?” The words obvious, a spill of nonsense leaking from his throat. A roll of thunder laughed at his stupidity. He yawned and Cornelius responded with his own, a ball kicked across a field. “Count the time.”

The lightning flashed. 

One. Two. 

Five. Six.

Nine. Ten.

The thunder banged. 

“You’ll remain, lest I discover you a struck match.” A chuckle. “Where will you sleep? Bed?”

“No. Too small.”

“Floor?”

“Your nest.” The bedding on the floor, a pile of pillows and blankets. “No.” John shimmied against the cushion, quite comfortable. 

“Couch then.” A hand ringed around his wrist, cool, dry, with rough raises of skin. A balm or an oil would soften them, soothe those cracked spaces. Rub it in to protect, but the scrape, the catch of calluses drew ripples extending to his core. Too long since another reached for him. The woman with the red nails dragged him up the stairs, through the door. He climbed her skirts and joined the chorus of men. Those sounds and noises should be for one person alone. 

Cornelius’s fingers traced a rhythmic gyre to his palm _too long too long_ , lulling him into the feather-light pull of rest. The world blinked dark then flickered to the dying firelight. And the fingers skimmed and traced his knuckles, the coves and inlets of his bent palm. Explored and he drifted across the sea to a beach, forward towards-

heard his name and kicked awake. “Tuck your legs up,” a voice said and he obeyed, body seeking the horizontal. He landed on something hot, a furnace, an engine. The ship’s engine vibrated through the boards, a heartbeat, speeding; a pulse, a pulse. His collar slipped open, the fabric parting to under his ribs, his bare chest skimmed. Prickling. It was fatigue, the cool air through the cracked window which rose goosebumps. The rain brought the chill. John hitched a groan when his fly released. No longer bound, restricted. A blanket draped, the heavyweight quilt, blue, dragged to his waist. Then pressure around his shoulders securing him to movement. Rise and fall, a rise and fall, a rise. 

A rise. 

He steadied himself against the knobs of a wrist, then the fine-haired forearm. Up to his hand. It a stroke, an ebb and flow. A flash of light, five. Roll of thunder. A roll, a name he licked to the roof of his mouth. Dragged to his lips. Never did he feel like this, it without compare. This man unequaled. This man. 

A rise. 

Sleep hooked around his spine and winched him up. “If God wanted.” He lost his words, they sank into the depths below. His bearings gone, but safety remained. A shhh, the whisper of palms and ferns, a beach meeting the field, a deer beyond the ocean's edge. See, see our deer. The blanket shifted, the arms returning, they above the storm, the crackle of light. Stoke the engine, feed the fire.

“Look what you’ve done to me.” The words hushed. He must have. John must have hurt him and he tried to apologize. The arms held him and he settled. Scraped his cheek against the back of Cornelius's hand. Lip-brushed his knuckles. A moan, his name.

A rise. 

“Hear the rain,” he murmured, the words dulled by the violent patter against the roof. “You walk in it.”

Air pulsed against his neck, by his shoulder. John tightened his hold lest they float apart. A press against his bare skin once, twice, thrice; a swipe, lingering wet, flowing like rain into a river. Only the rain and Cornelius’s breathing and his warmth and a whisper along his ear. “Join me and you’ll enjoy it.” 

And in the shift of his dreams he did.


	11. Morning Dawns - or - John Irving Finds the Center

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John and Cornelius consider shapes and find what they've been seeking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you - Matthew 7:7

To grow bold.

To grow bold and push through his worries, the paralyzing bonds drawing his body into itself. To be granted room to breathe with a steady inhale and exhale. This moment was revealed to him slowly as the light of dawn now crawling across his face. He assumed he’d be handed a rib

(it beneath his palm, they below his fingers; a cage, hiding his air and his heart, but he felt both)

and received dust. Not bronze or copper, his hair. Not vellum, the skin; the stain of crushed berries, flesh and blood; the thick honey-pour of his words. Dust, so simple and humble. Humility, a trait not held by Cornelius Hickey. So bold, he embraced the wind. So bold, he skimmed the seas. So bold, he walked the lands. His feet and hands dark with soil. With dust. 

He needed him. What a painfully obvious statement with their bodies pressed flush, but the truth kept. For someone who lived clinging to the Words of God and the Navy, he lacked the term for this connection. Obviously, friend was too simplistic; brother lent the closeness, but not the intimacy. In his mind, he saw the map, his life’s progress charted, the depths measured, his instruments precise. When he shut his eyes, the sheets disappeared, replaced by a painting. Someone framed it in heartwood, the stain drawing out the rings, the grain emphasized. Rendered in oils, he-and-he side-by-side, a welcomed warmth radiating from within, from the center

(here, below the ribs, above his waist; a pulse, a sigh) 

where their truths hid. Their fingers wove in Grace, a moment of domestic bliss usually reserved for the likes of Jack and Eleanor. However, if he tugged and brought Cornelius close so they embraced, the figures remained bathed in dappled light. If he reached, if he-no, not if. They touched with regularity. Every bump of the shoulder soon became an expected press of palms to the spine. Each touch became imprinted in his memory: the firm massage of fingers through his hair, the comforting stroke above his ankle, Cornelius not shying from his missing toes. The smooth swipe along his forearm reassured John he was not alone, they were building this life together. 

Perhaps together was the word he could not find, the one encapsulating his feelings. Friendship, brotherhood, the tug of affection stirring his soul existed because they were together. Together they unfastened and released Cornelius’s coat and left it to be moth-eaten and time-forgotten. What they’ve shared and created, the ideas brought to life, again done together. They emerged from their wools and the ice to stomp and work heat into their limbs and found their well-deserved peace. Cornelius breathed free and slept easy, no longer fighting the boundaries of his body. 

He stroked the curve of Cornelius's rib. His mouth was the slip of plums, thin slivers unlike the bend of a woman's. This man was without compare. Women, too, were unparalleled, but he had no other reference for touches and embraces but those gentle slopes. But this man who kept his arms slung around his shoulders now granted John a chance to explore. Knots and flesh, his body hummingbird-like while John walked an expanse of freckled skin. He was formed from solids and juts, angles, and lines. His mind focused on one line and how surely it rose with prominence. It did for John during the night. The evidence was apparent, an uncomfortable shift dried like tempera to his belly and groin. He pulled the blanket down and saw. 

Oh. 

He was exposed, the ribbon of his drawers undone to reveal a dark sweep of hair flaked with his emissions. His attention flicked to Cornelius and the stretch of skin below his navel. There the soft curl of his genitals tucked loosely into his clothing and the obvious spill of seed. It wasn't John's because he left a faint stain on Cornelius's outer thigh. 

Oh. 

He should stay to deal with the questions asked and partially answered in the fog of his mind, these new physical realities. The spiritual and the Godly, those realms were instinctual and held certainty. This left him trembling with the nervous anticipation for orders to guide him into the unknown. None came leaving him unmoored and drifting, a single man attending to a ship of the line. An impossible task as he faced the rocks, heard the roaring spin of the whirlpool. The feeling of paralysis set in and brought with it a sudden labored breathing. Nothing in his life prepared him for such an occurrence, but he knew he should stay. 

He should.

Oh, to be bold.

A tightness settled around his neck, below the swell of flesh. He swallowed and choked. To be bold enough. He untangled himself and replaced the blanket. He should stay. But his throat clicked closed and denied him the leap and the splash of water. Cornelius would come. Please, he intoned, his hand hovering over the sleeping form, be brave and sure. 

Come. 

*

He did not. 

Cornelius wandered the treeline, his fingers skimming branches, upper body exposed to the clear, cloudless day. A white flag of fabric dangled from his pocket, face turned to the sun, it licking his skin pink. 

John watched from his window. He left the door ajar, his hands wrapped around an untouched, cooling cup of tea. 

Let Cornelius come.

He did not.

❦

Why this man? His remaining pieces were left scattered. He only heard his name spoken during Sunday service, the syllables jerking his head up like a thread cinching, a rope tightening. Too long since he heard his name spoken in earnest, too long since he wore his skin, dust-pored and sooted. This one fits well and the touches hummed like a plucked wire.

Why, this man. A believer who stock-stilled through life, his eyes focused on what lay before him. Yet, to hear him say his name, his true name. Take the Bible and read these pages, repeat the Word, repeat the Word. I will be your cat and recline before you, John. Speak. This name a mask, but transparent, molded glass. 

Why: this man. See the land, see his land. The wind called. Above, the blue sky and stars. Below, below the dirt, the earth, the run of waters. The trees, grasses, the walking animals. He wandered among them, before him and his Him. Nothing kept him from running, but everything urged him to stay, to remain, to tether him. 

Why? This man.

❦

*

He floated through the days. Two. Only two days, but the soul was wrenched from his body. Come, please, come. 

John did: his prick grew bold. He worked himself with the fires stoked from the pleasures denied to an awake mind. Rutted like a horned beast as he surely did that night. The sensations of pressure felt familiar when he ground himself against his bedding. The blankets were a poor substitute to Cornelius's thigh, the lean line of finely haired muscle hidden under his trousers. John's gape-mouthed grunts and desiring noises became loud wordless shouts begging Cornelius to come. Witness the desperation of a man in need with fingers curling into the sheets, the side of his face pressed into the pillow, buttocks raised and tensed. Behold the complete loss of John Irving, overwhelmed with a brazen sense of. of. 

_Fucking._

Let his voice fly through the walls and carry across the field into his ears. Let him shimmer like moonlight into his room. In a mercy he’d appear below and chant his name, urging him along before spilling his seed exactly as John did into his bedding. 

*

❦

Cigarette flare the only point of light, the moon hidden in itself. A sound, the rustle of leaves.

He held him. 

The noise louder, a brush of twigs and grasses. 

He gave him his thigh. 

Beyond the forests, a snap, a shift then silence. 

He gave him his thigh and received his hand. He’d give him more. 

The rustle resumed. 

He’d return to his knee as long as he could be free to wander. No leash, no tether, the fence not to confine but to define. A final pull of his cigarette. He cupped himself. 

In the distance, a cry. The red buck bellowed.

❦

*

He heard a whistle from across the fence. 

“I’ll collect you early tomorrow morning. I’ve found what I’ve been seeking.”

Is it me, John wished to ask. He nodded. 

Cornelius spun on his bare heel and walked a lazy path home, arm extended. His little bird in danger of flight. 

Tomorrow. 

John pursed his lips to call him back. No sound emerged. 

*

Tomorrow shimmered from the moonless night. How they spun around the topic and left it unaddressed. Unacknowledged. 

Of boldness. He would draw Cornelius close, stud his skin with kisses, tattoo his affection with his lips and tongue in a snowfall of affection. Instead, he remained solid, stoic, rooted in place. So they walked and John followed. He always followed, his feet slow and unsteady. Cornelius broke the path and John padded along well-trod grasses. The early morning mist hung around their ankles and clung to the grass. Barefoot, the cool dew broke his skin out with a chill. They carried their breakfast, slices of buttered toast and cold ham, sharing bites as they strolled. 

They did not speak much though when they did the topic at hand _in hand against hand thigh the press of it_ was Cornelius's discovery. “Are you certain?” His friend, for now, friend would do, sighed and stalked ahead. How painful it felt to fall into old, long forgotten roles. His questions splattered against impatience. Indecision was no longer worn down by the ocean but left along on a windless, waterless span of land, isolated. “Slow down, your stomping will scare them.” John two-beat his steps to catch up. Forced to follow. 

“They bed in the woods. We are nowhere near the treeline. It is less my footfalls, but your disbelief that will fate us to failure.” He extended the last piece of meat John’s way and he quickly seized it between his teeth. Fingers disappeared into Cornelius's mouth and the sight curled a layer of sweetness into John’s belly as the tongue licked salt and oils from his skin. He was a book parted, splayed open never to be closed again. He held those fingers in Grace!

He forced his attention back to their discussion. “The deer are plentiful, dropping their young like plants do seeds. I do not understand how they evade you at every turn.” 

The sigh was deep, world-weary. “Such things cannot be explained. But I believe it is because it means so much to me. God blesses you and you alone. Your prayers reach his ears and are granted. Mine? He turns his back.”

Such a defeatist attitude was unlike him. “Come now, God knows your words. Trust that he listens.” 

“Men have asked for much and he provided. Sir John’s services all began and ended with an invocation to guide us through the passage. He did.” Cornelius slowed and brushed John’s hand with his wrist. With a quick slip, their palms clasped, fingers tucking together. They were cold and he was briefly transported back to the Arctic, the chill which permeated the layers of mittens, the air sucking what little heat he bent into his hands. If he were bold he’d bring them to his lips and huff warmth into the digits. He was brave enough to squeeze them gently, grateful to secure him, to keep Cornelius from dashing away and bounding into the sky. 

“God provides, but not in the manner you assume. Speak with Him and He counsels. Seek His guidance and He will illuminate your path. The deer are here for you. Have faith.”

“Easy words for a man who deems them plentiful like weeds. I have faith enough to lift the souls of the damned. Still, feels like it alone cannot feed the hungered.” His eyes shifted and he let go, John chasing his hand with his for a moment before letting it drop to his side. “The ground is trampled beyond that fallen log you left by the treeline. I am certain there is where they rest.”

When they reached the forest Cornelius bent the branches for John, careful to not snap them back and scare what wasn’t there. They wove their way around thick-trunked pines and oaks past waving ferns. Squirrels scampered, objecting to their presence, but they pressed on until they reached a nondescript patch of forest. Here they stopped, Cornelius dropping cross-legged, John drawing his knees to his chest. He picked up a rock and began to peel the moss from it, green and spongy, crumbling a bit. 

“We skipped rocks, remember?” 

Cornelius nodded his response. It was one of the silly officers’ games they developed to fill the lulls. 

“Let the men wager,” Sir John told Crozier and Fitzjames. “God will understand when we pierce the veil in His name.” 

They did, the men dolling out bits of tobacco and rum rations, placing their faith on Gore’s natural athleticism, Collins’s strength, and Des Voeux’s speed. Never John though, his pride wounded though he was too stubborn to show his embarrassment. But he bested them, easily beating the other officers in a foot race over the hills. The rocks gave way under his boots as he climbed and pushed and slid his way up and over. They cheered when he was awarded his medal, the washed top of a tin can with his initials hastily inscribed. He still had the thing tucked in a drawer, the ribbon still attached. John wondered if Cornelius applauded him or if it mattered at all while they sat waiting for the deer to pass. 

“I've got a theory,” Cornelius breathed to his neck. John leaned closer to better feel the whisper, it a press against his earlobe, a thrill which settled into his belly. “Little ones have them spots. I posit it’s because they blend into the ground and the sun drops light over them, hiding them.” He moved to his belly and John onto his back. A fern was within reach and he let the curled tip spin around his index finger. 

“Have I ever told you about the spiral? _Spira mirabilis_.” Cornelius shook his head and shifted closer, his hair becoming a curtain separating them from the world. John pulled the fern between them. “The winding curves extend outward on behalf of the center, always reaching, but never forgetting the source.”

“Like us,” Cornelius replied his words a hum in the still morning. With care he stroked the fern’s head, brushing over John’s fingers. Each little motion seemingly warmed Cornelius’s touch until their skin flared with heat. Slowly, hesitantly, he drew the same along John’s temple, fingers skipping before growing firmer, certain. 

A nautilus, the tight bud of a rose unfurling, the logarithmic equation led to a complex shape and he never appreciated its beauty more. How it bent closer to his face, stroking lines that extended from the curve. Fractals, his blood following the branches of his veins and arteries. “The rivers,” John stammered, his chest tightening as Cornelius developed new patterns to his ear. “The rivers feed the ocean’s pulse. They fork and divide and split, but they always throb their way home. Can you imagine a river running dry, its sense of loss?”

He brought his hand to Cornelius’s cheek, his hair held between palm and skin. Thumbing red and gold, they slipped like threads, pulled from a miracle. He flushed and a curious smile parted his friend’s mouth. When the lightning sparked the sky, did he feel those lips? 

God provided, but not in the way assumed. If God wanted him to have a woman, He would have sent her. If God did not want him to have this man, this solid form who moved with so much assurance, his friend and constant companion, the one who jested and pulled and bound him to something true, then He’d take him away. Oh, let Him try and John would fight, would dig his heels into the ground and clutch Cornelius to his chest. Together they grew and changed side-by-side. They stepped off the ladder and into a different world they built with the hands looping and skimming skin.

The oceans flow and Cornelius asked if he could imagine their expedition ending with the water closed off to them, the water pinched into unrelenting ice leaving them trapped, frozen in the wastes of the Arctic. No Inlet, no Cove only the pace of an endless pattern, _spira spira spira_ , no miracle. Nothing at all. 

But he lived, they lived. He followed his brow to the sharp angle of his nose, to his lips, a thin line which grew pink then red. Colored as they did his skin when they worked until they could drop to the earth and sleep for ages. Together. Always. Always John turned around him with a hand outstretched, the same hand guiding Cornelius closer. Hair brushed his cheek, their foreheads meeting, their noses. His eyes so beautiful and keen yet questioning before becoming a blurred spot, edges running together, skin an unnecessary fence dividing them. 

Their lips brushed with the slightest skim to coax blood to the surface. It became the whisper of a snowflake to an eyelash, the solid cloud of air in the cold. Neither John nor Cornelius moved; the hover of their mouths was enough to draw a shared breath, an exchanged sigh, an answer agreed upon. 

If God wanted. 

No, if John Irving wanted. 

The faintest crunch of timber in the distance, too heavy to be a squirrel, rabbit, or grouse broke the spell. They turned to the sound, John shifting to his side to bear witness as five brown bodies moved between the trees, nestled in the fading mist. Three does and two fawns, their little spots clouds of white painted into their fur. His attention darted between the animals and Cornelius before finally settling on him. Such a simple moment became the truest blessing, his face open with a wondering smile curving his face. The animals paused, the fawns dropping to the ground while the does fanned out around them. 

More branches snapped and Cornelius’s eyes grew wider. The buck emerged with a chandelier for antlers, majestic. Everything led to this expression of beauty, his world thicketed with the rough feel of bark and the tickle of moss. The velvet tight curl of the fern before it unwound, stretched and jutted from the earth. He cupped Cornelius’s cheek and kissed him on the crown of his head right along the part. Buried his face in his hair and inhaled, the scent of the forest clinging to every strand. His wild creature was at rest where he belonged, bedded and protected by John. 

No, somethings cannot be explained; the answers could only be shared or felt. John’s lips dragged a soft line to his head, pressed the most gentle of kisses, unable to stop; unwilling. 

The deer grazed on in the early morning fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness we have arrived! It only took eleven chapters, 20k+ words, and pacing my own spiral as I worked these chapters out. Can you believe?


	12. The Day Passes - or - John Irving Finds A Marvel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the day is whiled away.

Little kitten licks roused him from his nap, the playful nudges forcing him into awareness. They left one position on the forest floor and ended up in the same tangled in a mass of blankets and pillows. They shed their shirts and unbuttoned their trousers enough to relax. John remembered wrapping his legs around Cornelius’s waist and tracing drowsy lines along his cheek following the curve of his beard with a foolish grin plastered on his face. He permitted his eyes to rest for but a second; of all the days to let pass in slumber. But if it meant he’d be woken up with kisses, their lips parting sweetly, then let him doze. 

“This is a marvel! We kiss now, Cornelius. If we start let’s never stop.” He spoke the obvious with awe, his mind foggy from waking and the intensity of his emotions. But he could think of no better ending than to be taken to Heaven, his final breath given to Cornelius. 

“Smile for me again.” It came easy, John’s elation spreading across his face, met over and over again by pecking lips. They danced to the corners of his eyes, the tip of his nose, his chin. All the while Cornelius’s fingers slid up and along the length of his throat, speeding the flutter of his pulse. “Do you regret the stray of your good Christian heart?”

“I didn’t stray so much as you brought me a sense of completion. Our hearts are Good. After all, the Lord guided our paths until we realized we were meant to be.” 

“So He cast a die which spun me to your side?” Cornelius straddled him, the heat from his groin driving him to near distraction. With his thumb and middle fingers opening and closing rhythmically against his throat, John finally understood what men who stated they were transfixed by a lover meant. “Are any of my choices truly mine under His hand?”

“He provided options, but you made the choice, my dear.” Both men colored at the affectionate term. An image promptly flashed in his mind demanding attention. “Oh! Off. There is something I must see.” He stood and searched for his quarry until he spotted it balanced on a book. 

“What is your game,” Cornelius asked when John placed the antler on his head, urging him to keep it secure. He pulled him onto his lap, his thin body cutting a lean line, his horn stretching him to the Heavens. John had no woad only the lingering heat of his palms to paint invisible patterns along his torso. His odd creature ought to be carved in ivory or a gem shifting patterns when it caught the light. 

“I have none, only a singular desire to claim you.” Supporting Cornelius’s lower back in his arms he drew his tongue along the dip of his throat. This was the next logical step, their early morning kiss moving them to taste and touch. A lick became a slight nibble then another, hard enough to bend the flesh between his teeth. Any fears he caused injury disappeared when a moan vibrated his mouth, the low sound pitching higher as John sucked to soothe. He lapped and suctioned his skin until he knew the capillaries would bloom into a rainbow of earth colors. 

So, this was boldness, Cornelius huffing and arching to provide greater access, driving his hips forward, eager to be touched. John was equally excited to reveal, his fingers tracing a trembling line below his navel. Fine hairs speckled his skin to skim tiny tickles against his knuckles. Each brush seemed to drive Cornelius closer to the brink, his prick pushing the fabric off his thigh. 

With quick flips of the buttons, John found his delight. Here was the seat of man’s desire, it an echo of his, but different enough to be worthy of study. Cocks formed the most fascinating arcs and juts when aroused, reddening the heads to pretty berry ripeness. John’s was thicker, but Cornelius had a pleasing length destined for exploration. “You cut a striking form.” 

“Be sweet and provide for us.” With his expression soft, Cornelius looked the very picture of innocence. Yet, his eyes could never lose their keen edge, honed against his arousal. Sharp, yes, but John’s teeth were sharper, his mouth giving no kitten licks, only firm nips as he guided him onto his back. His own prick throbbed heavy, calling for attention, begging for John to succumb to Cornelius’s wishes. He would, but he wanted to take a moment to taste, his tongue lapping like an animal. 

“Though I wonder if you want to take. Here I believed I needed to coax you to intimacies and thaw you like ice.” 

“I have much to learn, but I can move and stroke. I will not fear. Let me be brave for us.”

Cornelius tossed his head back, exposing his red marked throat and grinned. “Be a wolf, John.” 

“There are no wolves in Scotland, my dear, but who is to say they cannot return.” 

They twined their hands around the antler and urged the animals home.

*

Hunger overrode all other desires forcing them to wander to John’s in search of a meal. He craved a roast or a joint, something to pick from the bone; instead, they made do with what they found. The ham sizzled in the pan, halved tomatoes lent their liquid to soften the cubed potatoes before thickening to a glaze. Arms wove around John’s waist to embrace him as he seasoned the vegetables. A pinch of salt and pepper, a slightly more generous dash of mustard powder. Something sharp and pungent, a most welcomed kick to invigorate both their energy and palates. The pressure around him disappeared only to return, an egg in each palm. 

Into the pan they went, the dark orange yolks staring as the whites set. He tucked his arms over Cornelius’s and they rocked while their food sizzled and popped. Finding no need for conversation or plates they wandered outside, grabbing utensils and toast. They exchanged bites and smiles. Every so often they’d loosely twine their fingers, a reminder they were _here_.

Cornelius polished off the remainder of the eggs, swiping the bread through the yolk. John made a move to collect the pan and forks but was waved off. Still, he peered through the window and watched Cornelius scour the pan and sweep the breadcrumbs away. Certainly, Jack felt the same surge of joy when Eleanor tidied their cabin and set their small world right. 

A passing fancy tipped into his thoughts: he and Cornelius waltzing. John lumbered gracelessly while Cornelius fought to control the steps, fingers tearing at the flowers tucked through his hair. Their love was a constant tug for balance and affection, but they moved together. The world could spin a lively quadrille around them, men and women stiff-winged butterflies as they turned a slow circle in work clothing, bare feet crushing grass and not treading hardwood boards. Their universe was reduced to a perfect column extending to Heaven, following them like a sunbeam. Let us dance, let our feet never grow tired. 

Let us be. 

*

“Do you remember when we first shared a bed?” 

He reached for John tentatively, like the day's events did not happen it only an extended fever dream. If they touched they’d wake alone and seeking, their feet tramping their spirals forever dancing around the inevitable. For reasons unknown and feared, their nude bodies were angled away from one another, but their faces close enough to share breaths. The ghosting touch, the hovering palm brought a chill to his skin, the hairs rising with every cell straining for Cornelius. 

“You spoke of your past and called my name.” 

Too dark to see anything with the moon dipped behind the clouds, too shy to emerge, John could only picture Cornelius’s face. His brow wrinkled, his face begging to be reached, but unable to accept the contact. They ought to be celebrating their newly experienced love, their bodies one slide after another until fatigue dipped their minds into a blissful slumber.

“I’ve felt this way before, John. You’ll wake up and where will I be left?” 

Every one of Cornelius’s breaths came as a shudder, a staccato rhythm as if he were choking on some hidden emotion. The worries leading John to fold himself, to stoop his shoulders in doubt must have been transferred to Cornelius through their kisses. Such an unfair situation broke his heart and left him feeling gravely inadequate. But he could hold him and remove this coat and toss it into the fireplace. The ashes can fly up the chimney and float far from here. 

“Why are you mourning a loss that has not occurred? I am here and you are here and here is where we shall remain. I’ve opened my bed to you. There is much to learn, but I see I must be a teacher as well.” He let his palm drift against the dip of Cornelius’s hip, his thumb tucking into the junction where it met his thigh. “Am I the person who broke your heart or am I John Irving?”

“Better not turn into one and the same, John. I’ve come to prefer this place.” He shuffled closer and sighed contently, a little pulse of air as lovely as an embrace. “Can’t abandon my chickens to your care, can I?” 

“Goodness, no! The Illustrated London News would bear a story about my plumed demise.” John cleared his throat and curled his fingers into his slender thigh, his heart rolling. Every moment with Cornelius was one subtle shift after another, but he remained an anchor holding him steady. “We have time to work through our little oddities. Understand when you call my name I will come.” 

“Even now, in this late hour,” he asked, his voice syrupy. A hand began to seek with growing intent, finding then dashing away. They grew hungry, John a man who starved for years, denied the food of the flesh and presented with a feast. Cornelius turned his name into a chant, drawing him forward, urging him nearer. Knowing he would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincere apologies for the delay in this chapter! I've been struggling creatively and I hate that you need to suffer for my writer's block. This story means a lot to me and I do not want to do anything half-hearted just to simply get anything up.


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